Soul Bound
by MWard
Summary: Spike has a problem. He's stuck in Sunnyhell with a Slayer that can barely stand him and no one to bite. Guess it's a good thing that a mysterious girl shows up working at his favorite bar to keep his unlife interesting. Spike-centric, AU Season 5ish. Rated M for Marmalade, or whatever spread you like best on your Wheetabix. Spike/OC
1. Chapter 1- Versions of Violence

_Hello fellow Buffy enthusiasts! This is a little side story I've been working on in my free time to balance the work to play ratio. Full disclaimer, I love Buffy and Spike together, but it's been done so many times I doubt I'd come up with anything terribly new. My goal is to keep this story as fresh as possible, so besides the characters themselves (Oh, Joss Whedon, how I love thee so) and their histories, I'm not going to be borrowing much in the way of plot or line-for-line dialogue from the episodes. Comments make my day and I'm happy to communicate via PM. Thanks for reading!_

 _And now, off to Sunnydale!_

* * *

William the Bloody was having a bloody awful night. He needed a drink, a shag, and a cigarette, preferably in that order, but all three simultaneously would be more than acceptable too. It had all started when his plans for robbing a very large Frophla Demon had gone horribly awry. Two showers and a change of clothing later, he could still feel it's slime burning his skin. _And_ he didn't even have a charmed Necklace of Thilodian to show for it. Not that he needed it exactly, but the higher his bar tab at Willy's Place climbed, the faster Willy's patience ran out.

"Could have made enough quid off it to _buy_ Willy's sodding bar," he muttered as he roughly shouldered his way past a group of drunk college students. One of them shrieked as the jolt forced him to crash sideways into his friend, and both boys toppled to the sidewalk. Watching anything fall over was a visual Spike always found entertaining, but tonight he couldn't have cared less.

Harmony was the second item on his ever-growing mental shitlist. Stupid bint had a bad habit of showing up at the worst possible moments, couldn't keep her mouth shut for more than two minutes unless she was unconscious, and even then he didn't trust her to stay quiet. She'd also used up half his nancy-boy hair gel and an entire bottle of his black nail polish painting little black hearts all over his sarcophagus. Safe to say, she was out of his crypt before she had time to blink.

And then, the marshmallows on his proverbial hot chocolate, he was getting succinctly nowhere with Buffy. Every pass he made, every effort he put forth to show her that he could be better was met with suspicion and the promise of a good staking. It wasn't completely her fault, he _had_ been trying to kill her for years, but it was getting preposterously old.

He stalked his way towards Willy's, the one establishment besides his own living quarters that he was moderately welcome, on the hopes that he could threaten Willy enough to let his bar tab ride just a little higher. At least then he could drown his miserable existence in Jack Daniels and hatch up some scheme more exciting than spending the night slumped in his chair watching Dawson's Creek reruns.

And so it was, that after having such a wretchedly awful night, he was delighted to find that once he'd thrown the door to Willy's open and shoved some vamp newbie out of his favorite seat at the bar, that Willy wasn't even around. Some pretty little brunette flitted around behind the counter, taking orders and delivering drinks with a speed that put the owner of the bar to shame. Maybe he could even start a running tab under a fake name. _Or someone else's name_ , he thought with a calculating smile. _Rupert Giles_ had a nice ring to it. Willy wouldn't even know until it was too late to do anything about it.

Spike leaned back on his stool as he waited for the new bartender to take his order. She looked wholesome, innocent, as though she belonged in a Gap catalogue, not a seedy dive bar. Couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Not his type. That was Angelus's thing, the sweet ones. He liked his women with a bit of after-burn.

As she breezed past him to get change for a bill, he could hear her heart beating through the din of conversations and clinking of glasses, thrumming as quickly as a bird's wings, adrenaline and a perhaps a touch of fear coursing through her veins. She seemed human. Normal heart rate for a one in a demon-infested hole in the wall, anyway. But it was her scent that gave him pause; the faintest whisper of campfire ashes and forest dust, and something he couldn't quite place, but it was intoxicating and unnerving and he wasn't sure why.

He really needed a drink.

"Hey barkeep, what's a bloke gotta do to get a drink around here?" he interrupted as the girl was handing a demon back his change.

She turned around and gave him a saccharine smile. "He needs to not be an impatient asshat and wait until it's his turn to order." She walked away and began taking a drink order at the other side of the bar.

Spike's lips pursed into a unexpected smirk. So the cute little kitten had a mouth on her. If he could turn on the charm enough, perhaps a quick rough and tumble in a back alley somewhere wasn't out of the question.

"Tasty little morsel, aren't you?" he murmured, mostly to himself but loudly enough that the reptilian demon who was sitting next to him overheard.

"Don't even think about it, vamp, unless you never want to step foot in here again," the demon snorted mirthfully.

Spike shot an irritated glance at him. "What's it to you, Killer Croc? You Willy's new muscle or somethin'?"

"No, I just happen to know that three other customers this week got shown the door after trying to bribe Willy into getting a drink from the new girl," he frowned. "Not paying Willy to _order_ a drink from her, like paying to actually drink _from_ her."

"Pfft. Willy'd sell his own mum for the change under your chair cushion. You must've heard it wrong mate."

"Yeah, well Gartin and Meorge used to be here every night and I haven't seen them for days, so think what you want," the demon said with a yawn, dropping a few dollar bills next to his empty glass and sauntering off. Spike discreetly pocketed the tip while the bartender still had her back turned.

After a few more minutes she finally stopped in front of him, bestowing him with a speedy once-over that annoyed him with its casualness. "And now it's _your_ turn. What can I get you?" she asked, speaking to him like a teacher in a nursery school clas. The underlying current of sarcasm wasn't lost on Spike.

He took an appraising look at her. Long mahogany hair tied up in a sloppy ponytail, pale skin with a smattering of freckles. Swan-like neck. Carelessly pretty. And that attitude that seemed so jarring coming from her soft, pink mouth. Oh, the possibilities. His eyes lingered on her lips. "Depends. What are you offerin', pet?"

The girl barely contained rolling her eyes at him. "Beer, hard alcohol. Otter blood. Whatever the blue stuff that smells like rotting eggs is."

"Mattagar brain fluid."

The girl scrunched up her nose. "Really didn't want to know that."

Spike grinned seductively. "Just helpin' you out, luv. Been around a while. Know my way around a demon bar, could teach you all sorts of things."

"Sorry, I'm really not in the mood to have some Billy Idol wannabe show me how to mix a blood cocktail while he's feeling me up in the stockroom."

"Oi! I'll have you know, Billy Idol stole his look from-"

"Yeah, yeah, save it. That's what Elvis the Pelvis over there said too," she said, with a jerk of her head towards the corner of the bar.

Spike whipped his head in the direction that the bartender had indicated. A scrawny dark haired vampire wearing a bedazzled white jumpsuit and a broken pair of aviators gave him an unenthusiastic wave.

"Oh that's rich. Fine. Double otter blood. Make it the fresh stuff too, not that nasty rot that's been sittin' out for a week. Don't need that swill in my mouth after the kind of night I've had."

"Excellent choice. One otter blood, coming right up," the brunette said with another feigned customer-service smile. She retrieved an empty glass from the upper bar shelves.

"Elvis the bloody Pelvis," he growled to himself as he watched her bend over to get a pitcher of blood out of the mini fridge. "Bet he wasn't even livin' when-"

Spike stopped short as the collar of the bartender's shirt dipped downward, exposing a whole lot of cleavage and a delicate lacy bra. With a lascivious glimmer in his eye, he shifted forward to get a better look. No, not just cleavage and a bra, but a whole lot of tattoos, pale blue runes that patterned her chest and seemed to spread all the way down her torso. Curious.

She straightened abruptly, as though she could feel herself being watched, deftly tugging her shirt back into place. She decanted the blood straight to the top of the glass, and with a practiced hand, slid it over the polished wood bar top to Spike.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Yeah. What's your name, pet? Not too many humans come into this joint, 'specially girls who aren't the fang-groupie sort. Willy's your uncle or somethin'?"

"Uncle? No, gross. Willy's family and mine go way back, I needed a job and this happened to be convenient so he let me have it. And you can call me Allie. Any other _drink_ I can get you?" She eyed him suspiciously. "That's not from a bite wound?"

"Let you know."

"I don't doubt it," she snorted. "You paying for this now?"

"Start me a tab."

She pulled out a ledger book and a pen. "Name?"

"Giles. Rupert Giles," he stated with an air of self-importance. That was how the old bag would say it, right?

She stared at him for a moment. Shit. _She knew_.

"Your name's Rupert Giles?" she asked slowly.

Alright, maybe she didn't. "Yeah. That's me. I know you?"

She blinked, then scribbled something down in the ledger and flipped it shut. "Ah, no. No, you don't. Look, I'm sorry, it's been kind of a long night, I didn't mean to snap at you."

"No harm done," he said, lewdly running his tongue across his incisors, "but perhaps you and I could have a chat of the private sort later, and you can make it up to me."

She opened her mouth to respond, but a man in an expensive looking suit sat down at the bar, and she pressed her lips together and turned to go take his order.

As Spike sipped at his blood, he watched Allie make drinks for various customers and tried to puzzle her out. There was seemingly nothing out of ordinary about her, besides the fact that she had a pulse and was working at a demon bar. And those tattoos on her torso… those were definitely on the occulty side of things. No girl walked into a tattoo shop and demanded an entire dictionary of symbols be tattooed on her body, no matter how sloshed she'd gotten at a frat party; those kind of outings always resulted in flowers and unicorns on some ridiculous body part. He should know. Harmony had several.

Were there more? She was wearing a pair of jeans and a long sleeved floral thermal, so it wasn't like he could see if she did. Spike inspected the rest of the bar's patrons. Temperature hardly made a difference to him, but the few humans and climate sensitive demons of the clothes-wearing variety all had on t-shirts and shorts.

She was sweating. Not a lot, but just enough that Spike could see a slight glistening on her forehead. The girl was definitely uncomfortable, but she wasn't even rolling up her sleeves. He leaned his elbows on the bar top. Young girl, completely covered in tattoos and working in a demon bar. Added up to downright suspicious if it somehow involved the watcher.

"Spike! Didn't I make it clear that I'd seriously consider killing you if I ever saw you in here again?" a loud raspy voice rumbled from behind him.

Spike knew who it was without even looking. "Piss off, Bartrax. Be a good boy and go find yourself a nice ol' dog to eat. Somewhere else."

If Spike hadn't been paying rapt attention to the bartender, he might not have noticed the subtle shift in her demeanor when the angry demon behind him mentioned his actual name; the slight tensing of her shoulders, the tightening of her fingers around the nozzle of the beer dispenser she was using. Well, the tabby was out of the bag now. Spike was no Rupert Giles.

The enormous demon leaned close enough that Spike could smell the festering scent of rotted flesh on his breath. "Really shouldn't be eating dogs, Spike. You'll go running to tell the Slayer and her friends that I'm a puppy murderer and then she'll come and try to kill me. Isn't that what you do? Rat out your own kind because you're one of hers now?"

"Not gonna stop you if you want the All-You-Can-Eat at Pets R' Us, but just between us, think you should lay off the poodles. Not doin' your breath any favors, mate."

All the attention Spike had been placing on the bartender was swiftly refocused to that of violence when he felt himself get lifted up by the back of his coat collar and thrown halfway across the room. He landed headfirst on top of a booth table being shared by some very cranky looking vampires. All five of them stood up at once and towered over him, and the bar grew eerily quiet.

Spike laughed maniacally. "Did you see that? Bartrax here fancies himself the demon overlord of Sunnydale, tellin' vamps where and what they can do. Time to show this poncy bugger what's what, yeah?"

A few of the vampires shrugged noncommittally, and one left to get a drink refill.

Well, fuck.

Bartrax roared and everyone moved out of the way to let him pick Spike up and heave him towards the exit. Spike managed to get a few solid kicks in before Bartrax's well-placed punch to the face pushed him out the front door, and he landed on his back, groaning as he hit his elbows on the pavement.

"Next time, vampire, it won't be your ass falling out the door, it'll be your dust," Bartrax yelled out from inside.

Spike flipped him the bird when the door shut.

He'd made it a few streets before he reached for his pack of smokes and realized they were gone. Must've fallen out somewhere between his seat at the bar and being airborne. It was his last pack, too. He cursed aloud and kicked a lampost with all his might, cursing even louder at his numb foot, then began trudging back to the bar.

He waited until the bar was empty, which didn't take long. Willy's usual closing time was 4 am, and most of the clientele had worse places to be and more evil things to be doing. When the front was shut and locked by 4:01, he eased himself in through the back door, moving stealthily from years of practice. The pack of cigarettes was lying right underneath his stool. Easy. He snatched them off the floor and began to head back out when he heard a peculiar tune being whistled from stockroom.

Stepping lightly towards the sound, he leaned his head in so he could hear it better. It was the bartender, of course, pulling down bottles to be restocked in the bar. And she was singing the tune now. Her voice wasn't beautiful, but there was something in the low pitch of the sound that he found enthralling, and though he didn't understand the words she was singing, he knew instinctively that they were very old.

It was the second time that night that an odd sense of dread overcame him while being in the girl's presence, and he knew it was time to go warn the Slayer that something dark had come to Sunnydale.


	2. Chapter 2- Can't Not

"So you saw a girl with a bunch of tattoos, she sang a number from Creepy Songs: the Musical, and now your spider sense is tingling so you want to spy on her?" Buffy reiterated, hands on her hips as she cast her trademark irked stare at Spike. "Go get a hobby, Spike. Your nosiness is getting annoying."

Spike was suddenly very glad that he'd left out the part about the mystery girl's scent, and the fact that she knew something about Giles. "I'm tellin' you, something was off about that bird. Can feel it."

The Scoobies were having their weekly meeting at the Magic Box. Or was it their daily meeting? Seemed like the crack team had pretty much taken up residence in the Watcher's little store. Spike decided to crash their powwow partly due to boredom, partly from wanting to be around Buffy, and mostly to cause a little chaos among the group with some well-timed insults and general misbehavior. Not much to do when both biting _and_ drinking at the only demon bar in town were off the table. His unlife had been less than thrilling since his vacation time with the Initiative.

"Oh good, Captain Peroxide is latching himself into some serious investigative journalism since he can't latch onto humans anymore," Xander scoffed, "Do you think they'll send the Pullitzer to your crypt or do you want it sent care of Willy's bar?"

"Least I'm out doin' something, stead of sittin' with my thumb up my arse and playin' shopkeep with my old lady," Spike sneered back, issuing an apologetic glance at Anya, "no offense, luv."

Anya shrugged as she pulled out a fresh ream of shopping bags and hung them next to the register, "No offense taken, I _am_ several hundred years older than all of you."

Xander glared at him, "Yeah, and that "something" you're "doing" happens to be sitting in a demon bar getting drunk and pretending to be a functional member of society, you useless mosquito."

"Oh, shut your cake-hole, wanker."

"How's the anemia, Spike? Bet all that pig's blood just can't beat the sweet sweet taste of all John Does you've eaten."

Spike gave him a smile that was all teeth, "Was that an invitation to drink yours, Harris? 'Cause I still haven't sussed out what happens if someone's offerin'-"

"Fine!" Buffy interrupted, slamming her hands down on the table between her bickering cohorts, "Do as much investigating as you want, Spike. If it keeps you out of my in-serious-need-of-deep-conditioning hair, knock yourself out."

"One can only hope," Xander muttered.

Spike wasn't seriously expecting the Slayer to give him any leave to do, well, anything. But given his lack of invites to the Scooby meetings, the Scooby patrollings, the sodding Scooby birthday parties, he'd take what little he could get.

"Right, maybe I will. Do the investigation' thing that is," he said, attempting to sound nonchalant.

Willow leaned over towards Buffy, "Are we sure that's a good idea? 'Cause you know…" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "still a vampire."

Spike rolled his eyes.

Buffy gave an indifferent shake of her head, "It's still chips-n-dip in his brain, it's not like he can hurt her. Even if he could, she works for Willy, so call me crazy but I'm kinda doubting she's Pillar of Virtue Girl. And besides, we have way bigger issues to deal with at the moment."

"That dead couple that was found in the warehouse last week? Yeah, I'd say so. Major bigger issues," Willow shuddered.

Anya sat down and grabbed one of the numerous books from the research pile on the table, casually flipping through it. "So they were found with soccer-sized magically-induced burn holes in their chests? Those kinds of deaths are usually very painful. It probably took several hours or even days before their organs were completely liqui-"

Xander cut his girlfriend off with a gentle pat on the head, "Ahn! Yes, we get it! Horrible, horrible suffering. Please spare us the play-by-play."

"What? It's true. And I personally think that-"

"-That we should lay off the cleaning spray in here until we know for sure that it's not damaging the books," Buffy finished, as the bell to the Magic Box twinked and Dawn strolled in, clutching the straps of her backpack.

"Hey Dawnster!" Xander beamed.

"Hey Xand, hey guys! You aren't even going to believe what I found out in school today! Oh, hi Spike!"

"'Lo, Bit," Spike greeted. If he had to choose one of the Slayer's friends and kin to not eat, it'd be Dawn. She'd always treated him nicely.

Willow smiled at the bubbly adolescent, "You found out that chemistry is a very valuable class to be taking, because it's the foundation for an excellent career in the field of science?"

"Chemistry's the one with the shapes, right?" Dawn asked, dropping herself into an empty chair and pulling out a composition notebook and a highlighter.

"Yes, Dawn, and Calculus is the one with the baking and the sewing machines," Buffy said dryly, settling into her chair and sifting through book stacks. She pulled a heavy one out from the bottom and cracked it open, smoothing out the dusty pages with her fingers.

"Anyway, I was talking to Suzy, and she said that her dad's friend's cousin is a cop, and last week he found these two bodies in a warehouse, and guess what had happened to them?"

Everyone turned to gape at Dawn.

She looked around the table excitedly, "No? No guesses? Well fine, I'll tell you. Get this- they had these giant holes… burned… in… their… chests."

"See!" Anya burst out, "Even the fidgety, inexperienced child is willing to discuss the gore. Why is nobody stopping her from talking?"

"Anya, have you started cataloging the items from the estate sale we got in last week?" a deep English voice sounded from atop the basement stairs. The ex vengeance demon stood up with a sigh and went behind the counter, muttering peevishly to herself as she went.

"Rupes is here?" Spike grunted, "Guess that's my cue." He stood up and swiped the tattered blanket he used to shield himself from the sun off the floor.

Dawn pouted at him. "Aw, you're leaving? But I just got here!"

"Sorry Bit, got some little girls to go nibble on," Spike said, eliciting a giggle from the Slayer's little sister. "I'll report back when I get some intel, Buffy."

"Whatever, Spike." Buffy didn't bother to look up from the Compendium of Magical Injuries she was reading.

As Spike left the shop, draped his blanket over his head, and ran like hell for the nearest shady patch on the street, he began to hope that Little Miss Allie the Bartender was as much trouble as he was starting to suspect. He didn't believe in coincidence, and inexplicable murders coinciding with the girl's arrival was too much of one to ignore. Maybe he'd even help her out, if the price was high enough, and teach the Slayer a much needed lesson in respect for one's enemy.

Then he'd take care of the Bartender problem, and Buffy would have no choice but to be forever grateful to him.

It seemed like a good, well-thought out plan.

What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

He told himself that the reason he waited in the shadows behind the bar, defacing band posters with a sharpie and trying not to be bored out of his mind, was because he didn't want to pay his tab from the other night. Definitely not because he didn't want to get his ass kicked from here to Beijing if Bartrax saw his face inside again. Regardless, he'd spent the entirety of the stolen tip money on one of those fried onion things at the Bronze, a complete rip-off since they were definitely using smaller onions than before, so he couldn't have paid for a drink anyway.

Forty minutes after Willy's closed, Spike's lurking paid off. The back door to the bar banged open, and out came his bartender target, hefting a giant black trash bag on top of a container of folded cardboard boxes and glass bottles. She dropped it heavily by a dumpster and Spike grinned at the harsh sound of glass being broken.

"Shit," she cursed, as bottles rolled away from her in every which direction. Exhaling loudly, she turned around to follow the sound of one of the bottles. Spike stopped it with his foot and stepped out of the shadows, enjoying the way she jumped when she almost walked into him.

"Really? Oh, this is just great," she snapped, looking up at the sky and raising her arms melodramatically, "Anything else? Bolt of lightening? Velociraptor infestation? FREAKING ROBOT APOCALYPSE?"

"Bad time, luv?" he smirked.

"You!" she said, ignoring his comment and pointing an emphatic finger at him, "You owe me. Fifteen dollars for last night."

"Fifteen dollars?" he said incredulously, "Sodding ridiculous for one drink. Willy raised his prices again?"

"No, you're just a very generous tipper."

Spike let out a snort of laughter. Allie didn't crack a smile.

"Right," he said, wiping all traces of humor off his face and making a show of feeling his pant pockets for money, "Right, well, it seems, I-"

"Of course," she laughed mirthlessly, "let me guess. You don't have any money on you. You know what, I don't even care anymore." She grabbed the bottle out from under his foot and spun on her heel, walking back to the mess by the dumpster. He followed closely behind, black duster billowing out behind him.

"Shouldn't turn your back on a vampire, 'less you feel like being his nosh for the evenin'," Spike advised, noting with chagrin that the girl didn't seem even mildly intimidated by him, "Thought Willy would've told you as much."

She swung back around to glare at him, "I have had two, TWO different demons try to lick me tonight. Like a fucking lollipop. I have blood in my hair, some guy with hooves broke a hole in the floor, and for the grand finale? Something shit on top of the liquor shelf. So honestly, getting eaten by a vampire isn't really registering as being that much worse than the rest of my night."

She turned around again and began loudly piling bottles into her arms and throwing them into an immense plastic recycling bin.

"Frellian," Spike said, after a moment's thought.

"Frelley what?"

"Frellian demons. Teeny things. Pink skin, tail. That's what bodged up your liquor shelf. Think it's funny, they do."

"Oh."

Spike knelt down behind her and picked a few broken bottles, chucking them into the bin when his hands were full, "Name's Spike, by the way."

"Yeah, I know."

"So you've heard of me then?" he drawled, picturing her cozied up by a fireplace, reading a massive tome dedicated to his century of murder and pillaging after hearing his name the other night.

"If by 'heard of you', you mean listening to a gang of Hell's rejects talk for twenty seconds about what they were going to do to the neutered vampire if he stepped foot in the bar again, then yeah, I've heard of you."

"Bollocks," he said, flinging a bottle against the brick exterior of the bar. It shattered, tinkling pieces of glass raining down and bouncing off the pavement before settling haphazardly onto the ground.

"So why'd you tell me your name was Rupert Giles? Do you even know him?" she asked, after a minute.

"Yeah, I know that stuffed up ol' codger."

"So you aren't… friends with him?"

Spike regarded her with a tilt of his head, "Askin' a lot of questions. How do _you_ know of good ol' Rupes?"

"Just heard of him, is all. Trying to get my bearings in this town since I've only been here a few weeks."

"Word of advice, pet, keep truckin', else you'll get stuck in Sunnyhell with a chip in your brain and an army of white hats keepin' track of your every move," he said bitterly.

"Sounds like you're speaking from personal experience…"

He shrugged noncommittally.

"A chip in your brain, huh? I didn't know that was even a thing."

The words tumbled right out of his mouth, with as much passion as indignation, "Not right, is what it is. Nobody talks about detoothin' a shark so he can't bite or takin' the stingers outta all the bees. It's not bloody natural."

"For what it's worth, I know what it's like… not being able to live the life you're supposed to have," she said, idly picking at the label around a tequila bottle before dropping it in with the rest of the glass, "You have to work twice as hard to get through it and make decisions that are either horrible or extra horrible, depending on the day of the week."

He arched an eyebrow. _Well this just got more interesting._ "Doom and gloom, luv. Can't hurt a human, doesn't mean I can't get my rocks off doin' a whole manner of evil. And I happen to enjoy doin' the horrible. Just gotta wait until I get this soddin' chip out, gonna maim and eat every bugger that had a hand in puttin' it in."

She scoffed, giving him a look that said she could see right through his bravado. "Yeah? How's the waiting working out for you?"

Spike decided the less said on that subject, the better. "So what about this life you're supposed be livin'? How come you're all shacked up with Willy, cleaning piss off the ceiling or what have you instead of going to uni or finishin' school or somethin'?" He optimistically noted the abject horror that seemed to fill her eyes at his line of questions, and decided he needed to look into becoming a private investigator. He'd be so much better at it than the magnificent poof, and he had way cooler hair.

"What the hell kind of demon pisses on the ceiling?! I want like an actual list. None of them are stepping foot or hoof or ANY appendage into the bar. Ever."

"Figure of speech," he grumbled.

"Thank god."

"So about that life of yours, then…"

"Not talking about it."

"You've seen mine, seems fair I get to see yours."

"What is this, kindergarten?" She sighed as she dumped the last armful of bottles into the recycling bin and shut the lid. "Tell you what, vamp. You come back tomorrow with the money you owe me and I will _consider_ telling you."

Spike could see he wasn't going to get anywhere further until she'd had a hot shower and a full night's rest. And maybe a pint of that chocolate marshmallow ice cream stuff thrown in for good measure.

"Alright then, got yourself a deal," He said, and turned to go, pausing momentarily to shoot an inquisitive look at the girl. "You mean what you said earlier about not caring about letting a vamp have a taste? 'Cause if you really don't care, I could-"

"Spike?" she interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Not a chance."

He shrugged, "Suit yourself, pet. It's you missin' out, it's like a nice bit of-"

"NO."

"Right then. Ta, barkeep, see you on the 'morrow with your pay."

"Twenty."

"Twenty? You said fifteen!"

"I'm charging interest."

Spike growled as he walked away, only breaking into a grin as he gained some distance and thumbed through the wallet he'd pulled out of her jacket pocket. Twenty for her, eighty-seven for him.


	3. Chapter 3- Shadowboxer

"I thought you said her name was Allie?" Xander was squinting at the plastic ID card that Spike had found in the bartender's wallet the previous night.

"S'what she said, wasn't it?"

Xander squinted harder, shifting the angle of his hand so he could see without a glare on the shiny surface, "But her ID says Charlotte." God, the boy was dense. Hadn't he ever used an alias? Or seen _Dirty Rotten Scoundrels_ or _Mission Impossible_ for that matter?

Spike snatched it out of his hand. "Right you are, boy-o, congrats on the being able to read. Charlotte K. Hardy, five foot eight, green eyes, brown hair, lives at 701 sod-it-all is anyone even listenin'?"

All the present Scoobies were riveted to the increasingly loud phone conversation Giles was having with the newest local coroner, who happened to be a frequent customer at the Magic Box.

"-Yes, I understand, but it would be very helpful if we could get to see the bodies…. yes, I _know_ you've done us many favors already, but think of how much easier your job would be if we put a stop to whoever is doing this? It's the fifth body you've recovered in the past two weeks! Alright, yes. Thank you." Giles took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt sleeve, startling when he noticed all the Scoobies had their attention focused on him, "I do think it's high time we started getting to the bottom of this."

Willow seemed almost excited at the prospect of hours and hours of tedious research, "So what are we thinking? Soul-Snatcher Demon? Or maybe a Mok'tagar?"

"Oh, great. If my ex-roommate is back in town, we're going to have a big problem," Buffy groaned, resting her face against the table and covering her head with her arms.

"Actually, if it was Kathy, it wouldn't be that bad. We stopped the Ritual of Mok'tagar once, we could totally do it again. Buffy, you're not seriously worried it could be her, are you?" Willow asked.

"No, I just still have a tube of her lipstick and I'm so not giving it back," was Buffy's smothered reply. She looked up and made a face at the perplexed glances her friends gave her. "What? It's limited edition. And it's not like she was going to give my _soul_ back to me after she borrowed it!"

"If she had, maybe she would have given it a wash and ironed out some of those kinks that make you such a tight-arse, 'fore puttin' it back in," Spike piped up from his seat across the table. Perhaps it was unwise, but he couldn't resist a good dig at Buffy every now and again.

"Are you more concerned about my soul or my fashion sense, Spike? Because it's hilarious coming from a guy who has neither."

He gave her a patronizing smile, "Think it's funny, do you? Knew there was a spark of self-deprecation 'neath that goodie-two-shoes exterior."

"Why are you here again?" Buffy asked, glaring daggers at him.

"Intelligence," he grinned smugly.

"Lack of it, maybe. Ohhh, you were talking about the spying. Nope, not much there either…"

"It's the method of the soul-taking that has me puzzled," Giles said, stoically trying to refocus the derailing conversation in front of him, "Most demons are equipped in some way to take a soul without doing physical damage to the body. We know that there's been extensive wounds on each victim, so I'm not sure we should even be focusing our research on demons."

"So if not demons than what?" Xander asked.

"Well, witches or warlocks for one," Giles said, avoiding eye contact with Willow and Tara, "human minions, some of the lesser gods perhaps? Whoever it is, they'd have to be very powerful."

Willow picked up the ID card that was laying on the table next to Spike and flipped it over to read both sides. "Does anyone else think it's a teensy bit suspicious that this Charlotte girl showed up at almost the same time we started having trouble with these weird deaths?"

Buffy shrugged, "If it's Wednesday, there's a mystical death on our hands. Also can happen on Fridays, and every other day of the week that ends in the letter y."

"I know what you mean, but the last two weeks have been pretty brutal," Willow pointed out.

"Yeah, let's say I'm not counting on her having anything to do with it, but we can't rule it out either." She let out a gigantic sigh, "Alright. Spike, I can't believe I'm saying this, but keep at the… whatever it is you're doing with this girl. I want some answers. In the meantime, let's focus the search on the more non-demony crowd."

Giles put his hands on the table and looked soberly at the group, "I'll head on down to the morgue and find out what I can. Buffy, if you wouldn't mind joining me before patrolling?" The Slayer nodded in agreement. "Willow, Tara, continue looking over the books we've pulled. I think anything on pre-Columbian magicks, The Monarchia Grimoire perhaps, or topics related to historical warlocks and witches. And in the meantime, be careful. We don't know what we're up against yet."

* * *

701 Ridgemore Road. Floor 3, Apartment C. An elderly lady had held the entrance to the apartment complex open for Spike, and he complimented her shoes while bearing his vampire teeth at her growling pocket-dog.

He rapt cheerfully on the door to 3C, avoiding the sections of peeling paint and rust stains. The complex had seen better days, probably sometime in the fourteenth century and in a different dimension. He watched the peephole darken momentarily before the deadbolt turned and the door whipped open a fraction, held in place by a thick silver chain.

A sleepy looking eye peered out from the narrow opening.

"You're _such_ an asshole," she groaned, muffled against the wood frame she was leaning her head on.

"Nice to see you too, pet."

"Give me back my wallet."

Spike's lips twisted upward into a complacent smile, "Who says I've got it?"

"I'm not a moron. It went missing after I took the trash out. So either you took it or it fell into the trash, which it didn't, because I looked and ruined a perfectly good pair jeans. So that leaves you, the klepto-vamp of my nightmares."

"Dreamin' bout me then?" he asked suggestively.

"Dreaming about swapping blood for motor oil the next time you order a drink from me," she muttered. She stared at him vacantly while Spike stood just outside, tapping his foot impatiently. "Am I completely missing the point of why you're standing in front of my door?"

"Invite me in."

"Har-dee-har, hilarious," she deadpanned, "Give me my wallet or this conversation's over."

"Don't do these kinds of transactions in hallways, luv. Like to be comfortable, put my feet up, maybe have a cuppa while-"

The door slammed in his face. Ah, well, straight to blackmail.

"Right then, suit yourself, Allie," he said, raising the volume of his voice, "Or should I say, CHARLOTTE. I'll just be goin' to give this wallet to that nice landlord bloke downstairs, wager he'd take a real interest-"

Spike smiled as he heard the chain slide off the door, and it opened again. She stuck her head out, and glanced furtively down both sides of the hallway before directing her scowl back at him.

"What do you want, Spike? You want the money from the wallet, congratulations, it's yours. Just give me my ID."

"Told you, wanna come in," he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He practically see the wheels in her head spin, trying to make up her mind. "Course I could always come back tomorrow, Charlotte Hardy," he purred.

The girl let out an aggravated groan, opening the door wide. Her hair was bedraggled and she was wearing candy-colored pajamas decorated with cartoon sloths, completely at odds with the sour expression on her face. "Fine! Fine, but you need to call me Allie at the bar. Or if anyone else is around."

"Girl on the run, are you?"

"Something like that."

"Right then, Charlotte, let's get to business."

"It's Charlie. Nobody calls me Charlotte."

Spike smirked, "Prolly 'cause you tell everyone your name's Allie."

Charlie glared at him, "At least it's an actual person-name and not an inanimate object. Or are you named after the volleyball technique, because I wouldn't be surprised if-"

"-Stop stallin' pet. Let me in or I'm leavin'."

She gritted her teeth and stepped aside, motioning him in with over-exaggerated enthusiasm, "Come on in, Spike. Make your vampire-self at home in my apartment at I-don't-even-want-to-know o'clock in the morning. Touch anything and I'm kicking you out."

Spike didn't need any more encouragement. He strode right in, taking in the entire apartment in nanoseconds. Calling it a closet might have been too generous of a description; he could practically reach both sides of her living room if he stretched his arms out. Peeling flowery wallpaper and shabby mustard-yellow carpeting were among the room's finer points, and he suspected the shades were not drawn for privacy but to disguise the scintillating view of the town garbage dump that was half a street away.

"Alright, you're in. Hope it was everything you dreamed it would be. Now wallet," she said, holding out her hand.

"Tisk, tisk. Every time we meet, you're demandin' me to give you things. Startin' to think you're one of those high maintenance bints."

"And I'm starting to think that I'm going to go broke every time you get within a five foot radius of me."

Spike gave her a cheeky grin, ignored her outstretched hand, and circled the small apartment like an opportunistic estate appraiser. He meandered into her kitchen, only separated from the rest of the apartment by a low section of cabinets and a countertop. A half-eaten pint of chinese takeout and chopsticks sat next to an dingy avocado-green refrigerator that sounded like it was on its last legs.

"Don't see how anyone could go broke living in a rat trap like this. Could prolly pay the rent workin' one night at your bar, yeah?"

"Oh, well you see, that would depend on the bar patrons actually paying for their drinks," she groused, then began to get uneasy when he started opening her cabinets. "Can I help you find something else to steal? Like a nice potted plant? Maybe some family heirlooms?" She could hear him rifling through her pantry. "A bundt pan?"

"Got any of those little biscuits shaped like fish?" He wasn't actually craving human food, he just wanted to see how far he could push her before she actually tried to kick him out.

"Goldfish crackers? Are you serious?"

"Yeah. They're bloody adorable and they taste like cheese. Brilliant."

"No. Sorry. Fresh out of Goldfish you weirdo."

"Looks like you're fresh outta everythin', pet," he cast a dubious glance around her kitchen, "cept maybe roaches."

"This apartment may not be the nicest digs in town but it's not infested!" she insisted, dropping down on the tattered sofa that appeared to be doubling as her bed and sighing. "Besides, it really isn't that bad. It's got everything I need. No real complaints."

"Says the girl who's launderin' her knickers in the kitchen," Spike snorted, fingering a sheer black thong hanging from a makeshift drying line over the sink. Several other pairs of varying colors hung next to it, and he noted with satisfaction that all of them were a little on the transparent side.

Charlie shot off the sofa, and ran to the kitchen, cheeks flaming. She gathered all her drying undergarments and threw them into the top drawer of a dresser in the livingroom, then sat back down on the sofa as though nothing had happened.

"So let's talk, pet," he said, making himself comfortable next to her on the couch.

"That wasn't part of the deal. Deal was you come in, you give me the wallet, you leave. That's it."

Spike put his feet up on her coffee table, "Don't recall sayin' I'd leave."

She eyed his dirty boots distastefully. "No, I remember it pretty clearly. You said, 'let me in, I'm a horrible vampire who takes things that don't belong to me and I need to make up for my wicked ways by giving you back everything I took and leaving immediately after.' And you were going to get me a bunny, too. As an apology. And then impale yourself on a stake."

"Don't think that's how it went, Charlie Girl. But if that's the game bein' played, seem to recall you tellin' me that you were gonna let me in, fix a nice cup of blood, and let me drink it out of your mou-"

"-I'll lose your tab at Willy's."

Could she even do that? Spike scratched his head. What was she going to do, burn the ledger books? "Think Willy'd take issue with that. 'Sides, don't think I'll be patronizin' that rubbish bin anymore."

A look of understanding dawned on her features, "You're scared of that demon that kicked you out! Bartrax, right? Geez, I didn't figure you for such a coward."

"Oi! Take that back!"

"Why would I? That's the only possible reason."

"Is not!" Spike insisted, "Just don't like the atmosphere."

"That's not what your bill for $274.52 says."

Spike clenched his jaw. This was not at all the direction he had envisioned the conversation going. "Fine," he said, digging the wallet out of his duster pocket. He handed it out to her, pulling it back quickly when she reached for it, "Want a credit too, though. Months worth of drinkin', courtesy of good ol' Willy."

"A week."

"Three."

"A week," she said again.

"Two, but that's as good a deal as you get, luv."

"Done," she said, snatching it out of his hand, and checking to make sure her ID was still inside the folds. She must have noticed the money was all gone, but she didn't comment on it. Instead, she got up, walked to the door, and opened it with gusto. "Well Spike, I'm sorry you have to leave so soon, but a deal is a deal. Out."

He took his time standing up, adjusting the front of his coat and stretching languorously, the hem of his shirt riding up and exposing his sculpted musculature. He gleefully observed that her eyes momentarily flickered over his abdominals before darting back up to his face. He strolled out the door, turning around to lean pretentiously against the doorframe, and began to say something offensively perverse in farewell.

For the second time that night, the door slammed in his face before he could finish speaking.


	4. Chapter 4- Cheap Thrills

Spike gave himself a full day and a half before he checked in with the Slayer and the Scoobies.

At first, he wasn't sure what to tell them. Somehow, he didn't think the story about how he'd gotten his bar tab eradicated and the observation that Charlie lived in an apartment fit for unemployed hobbits would leave them terribly awestruck by his talents for detective work.

He eventually opted to describe her run-down apartment in exceptional detail, embellishing ridiculously on the decay of the place, and telling the downright falsity that she was terrified of him asking any sort of questions. He'd intended to make it sound as though she had a lot to hide, but it came out in such a way that the Scoobies seemed to feel a semblance pity for her along with their initial wariness.

They were at an impasse. None of them wanted to go after her without knowing for sure who she was, and nobody completely trusted Spike.

"How bad were the bodies at the morgue?" Willow asked Buffy, looking extremely reluctant to have brought the subject up.

"Bad bad," the Slayer said, wrinkling her nose, "Remember that time Xander made us watch _Alien_ , and there was that scene with the..." she trailed off, miming things exploding out of her chest with her hands. Willow made a grossed-out face and nodded. "It was like that. But with less guts and more... er, charcoal."

Giles poured himself a cup of tea, dropped one lump of sugar into the cup and then another, stirring it distractedly. "Judging by the trace amounts of magic on the bodies," he mused, "I'm fairly certain that it was a traditional spell of some kind that caused the damage. It's making me think more and more that we're dealing with a human. A very dangerous, very powerful human."

"Just so we're clear, we're saying it's _not_ aliens, right?" Xander asked.

"Emphatically," Giles muttered, rolling his eyes.

Buffy shook her head, a pensive look in her eyes. "It's the _dangerous and powerful_ part that makes me think it's not Charlie. If you were some fearsome human girl with mega-powers, why would you be working a service industry job? And at Willy's of all places?"

"As a cover!" Xander and Spike both answered at the same time. Both scowled at each other.

"Then why not at least work at Domino's and eat all the free pizza?" Buffy continued, "Or… or… Continental Hair Design and get styling advice during the off hours?"

"Are you saying that if she was working at a better job, you _would_ think it was her?" Willow asked.

Giles shut his eyes and Spike was fairly certain the Watcher was one inane comment away from blowing a fuse.

"So what do we do?" Willow asked, voicing the question that was on everyone's mind.

It was Giles that eventually came up with the two winning ideas; coming up with a safe way for the Slayer and the Scoobies to meet Charlie and assess the situation for themselves, and talking to someone who had actually known her longer than a few days. Clearly everyone was itching to take the case off of Spike's hands.

Xander rubbed his chin, "Where and how would we meet her though? I don't think having a chat with her on her own turf is a good idea, just in case she is the kaboom-soul-taker-person."

"Well I don't think she should come to the store! What if she tries to steal one of the customer's souls? _What if she breaks something while she's doing it_?" Anya asked, horrified.

"I really don't think it's her, guys," Buffy said, shaking her head complaisantly, "but just to be cautious, we should probably meet on neutral ground. Any ideas?"

It was silent for a moment, until Xander started to tap his fingers against the wood of the table, beating out the quiet percussion to a rock music fantasy in his head. Giles gave him a stony glare, and Anya laid a palm over his moving hands, effectively putting an end to the unwelcome drum concert.

"Oh! I know! Campus party at Watson House!" Willow finally said, excitedly, "Extra-neutrally, Initiative guys will be close by if there's troubles. And dancing! We can get our groove thang on while we get our Charlie-approve thang on!"

"Oooh! Party!" Buffy said with a dreamy look in her eye, sobering when Giles caught her attention with a not-so-subtle clearing of his throat. "And also, oooh! Reconnaissance!"

"And let me guess, Charlie Girl's invite is courtesy of yours truly?" Spike remarked bluntly, fairly certain he'd be playing a large role in the latest Buffy-Scooby-Watcher scheme. And it was about damn time.

"Did you have something better in mind?" Buffy asked him.

"No, no. Just wanted to make sure we were all stickin' to the same page, that you lot need _me_ to get your little plan off the ground," he boasted, a smug grin plastered on his face.

"Yes, Spike, we're on the same page," Buffy said tartly, "but if you do anything to mess this up, I will personally see to it that your chip is the least of your problems."

"Heard that little song a hundred times, Slayer. Gettin' to be old hat, it is."

"So, Saturday. I think it starts around nine or something," Willow informed them all, turning to smile at Tara, "You're coming too right? Don't wanna miss Saturday night with my best girl." Tara smiled and squeezed her hand.

"Ok, so figuring that part out was easy enough," Xander said, "but who could we talk to that knows this girl? Evil Undead here seems to think that she didn't have any family or friends around."

Spike crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a bookshelf, "Not family or friends, but just so happens, I know a bloke that knows somethin'."

* * *

The back of Willy's head whacked hard enough against the drywall to leave an impression that looked not unlike a meteor crater. Thankfully, there were no bar patrons to witness it happen, and the dent became just one more casualty in a wall that was starting to resemble the surface of the moon.

"I'm tellin' you, I don't know anything!" Willy insisted, turning red in the face while straining against the solid grip that the Slayer had around his neck.

"And if I tear your arm out of it's socket, will you know anything then?" Buffy demanded.

He held up his hands in a gesture of feigned surrender. "Look, you may think it's a good idea to beat some answers out of me, but I promise we will all be regretting it if you do."

"And why's that, Willy?" Buffy asked, pressing him against the wall with even greater force.

"You don't know who you're dealing with!"

"A cute little kitty with a smart mouth, if I'm not mistaken," Spike jeered from the bartop he was using as a front-row-seat to the interrogation. He was thoroughly enjoying the show, payback for all the times Willy had refused to serve him drinks due to lack of cash.

The bartender let out a sardonic chuckle, turning his attention to the vampire. "And if you think that's all she is, vamp, you're in for a world of pain. You'd do best to leave her alone. You mess with her, you mess with her family, and that's a road that not even you want to travel down. Believe me, I know."

"You're getting more and more cryptic in your old age, Willy," Buffy said, "And I've got stuff to do. So tell me what you know about Charlie, or I'm going to let Spike start breaking things in your bar. _While_ I tear your arm out of it's socket."

"She'll be here in a half hour, so good luck explaining what you're doing here. And besides, you can break me apart and set the bar on fire, but I'm done talking. "

Spike cheerfully pulled his lighter out of his pocket.

Willy stared back at him, unmoved. He flinched when Spike flipped it open and held the hot flame to one of the barstools, but still refused to say anything else. The stool was covered in so much wood polish it wasn't catching, and Spike gave up when the first group of customers for the night walked into the bar.

Buffy decided not to pursue further questioning with a such a large audience, and released her hold on the bartender's collar. "This isn't over, Willy. We'll talk later."

Willy scowled at her, tossing a dish cloth over his shoulder and began taking drink orders.

Buffy started to leave, stopping to turn around when she realized that Spike was helping himself to a beer. She shook her head at him. "You are such an alcoholic."

"Am not. Alcoholics need a drink, see, but I already got one," he grinned, raising his glass in a mocking salute.

She rolled her eyes, "Fine. But do something more constructive than just getting intoxicated. I'll be patrolling if you learn anything."

"Right-o Slayer. Will do," he said to her receding figure.

He had already finished two beers by the time Charlie arrived. Though Willy was giving Spike the nastiest looks he could muster, the bar owner hadn't even made a comment about his tab or made any motion to record any of his drinks. Looked like the girl was true to her word. Willy gave his employee a gruff nod when she walked in, and left for his office in the back, slamming the door behind him.

"Cashing in?" Charlie asked dryly, as she folded up her jacket and stuffed her bag into a cubby behind the bar. Her hair was loose and it cascaded down her shoulders in lustrous waves, giving Spike the peculiar desire to run his fingers through it and see if it was as soft as it looked.

"Course. Seems you got the super-mojo over Willy, pet. Mind telling how you managed that?"

She leaned in close to Spike and whispered, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Yeah," he said, giving her a crooked half grin. No need for small talk, he was cracking open the case and it was barely past midnight.

She awarded him with a matching smile. "Good. So can I," she said, and began to walk away from him.

His mood switched from indifferent to gleefully provoked at the drop of a hat. How the bloody hell did these impudent women do that to him? "Just a sec, Allie Cat, didn't get my order yet."

"You haven't even finished the drink in your hand."

He downed the remainder of his beer in one swallow. "Want a whiskey. Neat. And keep 'em comin', pet. Gonna make you work for it."

She pulled a clean glass and an entire bottle of whiskey and off the shelf, placing it heavily in front of him. "Sorry, it's Serve-Yourself-Night, Spike. I've got paying customers to take care of," she said, leaving him to his drink.

It turned into an objective for him. Drain the bottle, ask for ice, request a napkin, demand a shot of blood, get Charlie to bring him more and talk for a passing minute. When a lull in the crowd finally hit and two full bottles were emptied, she finally stuck around so she could just hand him what he needed without having to walk from one end of the bar to the other.

"See, what I'm sayin' is you need one of those fryer things, and a guy that can use one of those fryer things, few onions, and voilà," he wiggled his fingers for emphasis, "Bronze is outta business."

"Just like that, huh?" she said, unconvinced, "Sounds like a really solid business plan."

He heard every syllable of doubt in her voice, and rounded on her with equal amounts of sarcasm. "Yeah, 'cause lettin' Spike drink all the inventory will do wonders for Willy's revenue."

She began polishing a collection of freshly washed pint glasses with a cloth, lining them up below the bar, "I have no intention of working here for the rest of my life so I don't really care if we're in the black. Or the green. Or whatever color it is that means your business is doing well."

"So what would you do, then? If you could do anythin'?"

She stopped polishing, "It's really trite."

Spike clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back on his stool, openly waiting for her to continue.

"Okay" she said, biting her lip, "I want to see the world. I know, everyone says that. But I really, really want to. I want to put my toes in the sand on a beach in Thailand, walk through the Louvre until my legs are sore, see the Milky Way over a lake in Peru..."

"Not trite, luv. It's parta what bein' human's all about, seein' all there is to see on this great big ball. Even as a vamp, travellin' around can be a helluva way to pass the time," he said, thinking sentimentally of all the places he'd traveled to. Some were definitely better than others, though there was something to be said for sticking it out in the same place for a while.

"My mom started this jar of stones that she'd collect from wherever she went, wherever was special to her. She'd carve the name of the town, or state, or country, whatever, on the stone so when she pulled it out of the jar later she'd remember the day she picked it up." Charlie played with a few drops of condensation on the wooden counter, sliding the water back and forth with a wistful look on her face. She looked up at Spike, "I want to do that. Go everywhere and do that."

"To think, all this time I've been totin' around keychains and tchotchkes when I could've just put some pebbles in my carry-on, all easy peasy."

"I don't really see you as the snowglobes and postcards type," she said with a little smile.

He decided it wouldn't be advantageous to admit the only souvenirs he'd ever really been partial to were mementos from the slayers he'd killed.

"Anyway, that's what I want," she said, "Culture. Experiences. A full life."

"Not a bad way to spend a life, I grant you. World's full of things, exquisite, bizarre, to downright terrifyin'. But I'll tell you one thing, pet. You'll learn more about _you_ than about the rest of planet when you're takin' trains from Madrid to Moscow. And you'll learn all about whoever's company you're keepin'. Can't bloody think about Brazil without a sour taste in my gob."

"It might be better going without anyone. I've grown pretty accustomed to being on my own."

"What, no dishy bloke in your life to sail all the seas and climb all the climbs with?" he asked, curious to know if she was as alone as he was. She didn't respond, and he reached out and experimentally slid his forefinger along the top of her hand.

She snatched it away glanced at her watch, "You should probably get going, Spike."

"And why's that? Havin' a grand time, I am," he said, pouting a little.

"Well, for one, Willy's going to have a cow if he sees how much you drank, and second, it's almost three in the morning and that's Bartrax's usual time. Not that you're scared of him."

"Oh, pl-ease. Could thrash that mangey git from here to Sunday if I wanted."

"Right. But I had to clean up after a bar fight yesterday, and I really don't want to do it again."

He pursed his lips and gave her a licentious smirk, "S'what you're sayin' is you need a favor from me."

"Mmmm, I wouldn't go that far," she said blithely, "I'd just hate to see your nose bashed in or something."

"So you're sayin' you like my face."

She began collecting empty glasses and putting them into a dirty bin. "No, I didn't. Will you just go?"

"If you'll pass over one of those those to-go bottles of bourbon," he said, standing and pointing to the shelf that she'd been pulling from all night.

"That's not even a thing, to-go bottles!"

He sat back down, sighing as though he had no other choice. "Alright, then I'll have to drink it right here."

She made an exasperated noise and handed it to him.

"Catch you later, pet," he said, giving her a broad grin full of self-satisfaction. Tucking the bottle under his arm for safe keeping for a least the few minutes until he opened it, he went out in search of some fun. It wasn't daybreak yet, and he'd be damned if he went home while the morning was still young.

* * *

It had taken Spike a full twenty minutes to pull himself out of bed. It took a substantial amount of alcohol to get him drunk, but he had certainly felt the effects from last night. How he'd managed to make it home in one piece before sun-up, he wasn't sure, but he'd crawled onto his mattress and slept like he was actually dead-dead.

He knew something was wrong after he'd rubbed the sleep from his eyes and opened the trapdoor to the upper part his crypt. For starters, the front door was open and he was rarely that careless no matter how intoxicated he was. The vomit-covered steps that he'd played no part in was the second clue. He cautiously stepped up the rest of the ladder, and let out a frustrated snarl. No one was home anymore, but his living space was thoroughly trashed.

His refrigerator and the few pieces of furniture he owned were overturned and crumpled beer and soda cans littered the entire room. Greasy pizza boxes, snack food wrappers, and crumbs filled in the spaces between the cans. He checked his meager blood supply in the upside-down fridge. The bags were still intact but the appliance was busted, giving him only a few hours to find an alternative means of refrigeration before everything would spoil.

"Fuckin' kids," he muttered as he righted his arm chair. He sat down in it and pulled a single leftover piece of pizza out one of the boxes. It was cold and covered with anchovies but he devoured it anyway. He found his TV remote by the foot of the chair and absently pressed the power button as he looked around for more leftover food.

 _Remote batteries must be dead_ , he thought, pressing his finger into it a few more times when the television didn't click on. He glanced up at the TV, letting out a horrified moan. The rabbit ear antennas were bent and there was an enormous hole where the glass screen used be.

"Bloody hell!" he yelled aloud, though no one was around to hear him, "How am I supposed to watch _Passions_ with a sodding hole in the view-box?!" He flung the remote and ran his hands over his hair.

Spike pondered his options. At least he knew of one person with a television and a fridge that he had access to. It was sundown, so Charlie would be at work for hours, leaving plenty of opportunity to break in, catch up on his favorite television show, and have himself a drink.

 _And still have time for some uninterrupted exploration of all her belongings,_ he thought as he slipped his blood packets into his coat and headed out in the direction of her apartment.


	5. Chapter 5- The First Taste

At least now he'd get a real chance to poke around.

Spike opened up Charlie's fridge and dropped his bags of blood onto her shelf, first shoving back a few cans of Shoutin' Orange Tangergreen Hi-C and a tupperware container full of something that might have once been a sandwich. Now it was just fuzzy. There were a couple of frozen mini pizzas in her freezer, but that was it. Looked like the girl ate out more than she ate in. He'd already ransacked her kitchen the first night he'd been invited in, so he focused his search on the rest of her apartment.

He started with her dresser. Pens and cherry flavored chapstick, obscenely bright socks with crazy patterns, a few pairs of shirts and jeans, and some very soft bra and underwear sets that Spike filed away mentally for later use. The bottom drawer held enough candles to get an entire town through a year of power outages. Strike one for Charlie? Either she did a lot of magic spells or she just liked those long bubble baths by candlelight, a thought which he also filed away for later use.

He moved on to the bathroom, shuffling around the contents of the medicine cabinet. Eyeliner, some pink lipstick, a toothbrush, one fully rolled up tube of fresh mint toothpaste, hair ties; nothing out of the ordinary.

The rickety bookshelf in her livingroom was another matter entirely. He was amused by her taste in literature, that was for sure. Charlotte Brontë novel, Charlotte Brontë novel, Emily Brontë novel, Charlotte Brontë novel. And there, sandwiched between Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ and Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_ was _The Idiot's Guide to Freshwater Aquariums_ , first edition.

"One of these things is not like the other," he sang aloud as he plucked the book off the shelf.

Jackpot. The book had been glued together and hollowed out on the inside, leaving enough room to squirrel away a few items. A wad of cash and a few pieces of jewelry were stuffed inside, and a single photo drifted to the floor. Spike bent over to pick it up, noting that it was dated three years back, and he flipped it over to inspect the glossy front. The girl in the photo was definitely Charlie, a little younger, a bit more carefree, but still the same sweet look to her as he'd seen when he'd met her. She had her head thrown back in laughter and she was sitting on the lap of a young, dark haired man who had his arms wrapped around her and was gazing up at her adoringly.

It was a beautiful picture, the kind you'd see in overpriced picture frames for sale at fancy gift shops, and it made no sense that it was hidden inside a secret compartment. He studied it for a moment, and then slid it back inside. There was a couple hundred dollars rubber banded together, and he figured the set of bangles and couple of rings inside amounted to most of her life savings. He contemplated taking some of it of course, but figured she'd be annoyed enough already finding him in her apartment.

He poured some blood into a mug that had been drying in her dish rack, heated it up in the microwave to the perfect temperature, and sat down to watch television until Charlie came home. _So nothing too incriminating_ , he thought as he took a long sip from the mug, he just wished he could shake off the warning lights that seemed to sporadically flash in his head whenever she was around.

She arrived later than he thought she would, a grocery bag around one arm, fingers clasping the keys dangling from the door. She did a double take when she saw Spike sprawled on her sofa, feet up on the packing crates from work she was using as a coffee table.

"What the hell?"

"'Lo pet, long night?" he drawled.

"How'd you get in here?"

"Picked the lock, didn't I? Easy as kittens. Should be more careful, someone dangerous could come a callin'." He gave her what he hoped would pass for a sinister smile. It had always seemed to put people on edge in the past.

"Yeah, they might sit on my furniture and get all mysteriously threatening, and then I'll be in _big_ trouble," she said, yanking her keys out of the lock, "You know, I figured you'd be back here, I just thought it'd be when I was actually around, not a breaking-and-entering scenario," she frowned, "but when I say it out loud, I have no idea why I'd think that."

She walked inside and shut the door with her foot, "So what'd you steal this time?"

"Didn't steal nothin'. Just needed your telly."

"My telly?"

"Americans," he rolled his eyes, "Your television. Mine's broken and _Passions_ was on."

She blinked at him, "Passions."

"Yeah, _Passions_."

"As in, _Passions_. The soap opera."

"Yes, as in _Passions_ the soap opera," he reiterated slowly, as though she was from a planet that didn't use verbal speech as their preferred means of communication. And also didn't have television programming. "And glad I didn't miss it, think Timmy killed Tabitha. Fed her a bit of poison, he did, and she bloody melted."

"He killed Tabatha!? You jerk! I was going to watch the rerun when they do the marathon on Saturday."

Spike sat up, "Oh, you watch? Sorry. Didn't think you'd be into that."

She put her grocery bag on the kitchen countertop, "Yeah, well, guilty pleasure when I get the chance. Kind of takes my mind off of things. And it's weird. I tend to like weird. Do you think Timmy's ever going to get to be human?"

"No! Timmy a real boy? Worst bloody plot line they could come up with!"

"No," she disagreed, "the worst plot they could come up with was the first two episodes. I almost stopped watching."

"Yeah, wasn't a big fan myself but glad I kept on it. Ever see that show with the conspiracy theorist and that red-headed bird? X-Something?"

She turned to him and opened her mouth to answer, but narrowed her eyes when she caught sight of his hand, "Is that my Daria mug?"

He rotated it in his hand, and glanced at the sullen cartoon teenager and the giant black letters spelling out _I'm Overcome With Emotion_. He shrugged, "'spose it is."

She gave him another one of those school-teacher looks. "Tell me you're not drinking something gross. Like bodily fluids gross."

He took a sip of blood and grinned, "And what if I am?"

"Oh _come on_!" She whined, "That's my _favorite_ mug. I drink _coffee_ out of that mug. And now you've gone and all…" she waved her hands around, "grossed it up."

"Funny comin' from a girl who spends her nights fillin' glasses with gross. Think you'd be over the taboo or whatnot by now."

"Yeah, well I don't drink it, and I don't want to come home to it," she said, putting the contents of her bag one by one into the cabinet dedicated to pantry items. Canned tuna, cheerios, microwave popcorn, all in a row. "You better scrub that out before you leave. I'm talking hot water, soap, and maybe some cleansing fire…"

"Sure thing, pet. And when I'm done I'll get with the vacuumin' and tidyin' up."

She made a face at him before pulling a box of crackers and a container of peanut butter out of the bottom of the grocery bag and crumpling it into her recycling bin. She flopped down on the sofa next to him, unscrewed the lid and dipped a cracker in, managing to smear the peanut butter all the way up to one of her knuckles.

"Didn' they teach you how to use cutlery in bartendin' school?"

She made a show of sucking the peanut butter off of her finger and though it was done in innocence, Spike felt his pants tighten a fraction. "Must have missed that day," she said, impishly narrowing her eyes at him, "But I bet biting someone's neck and drinking it is real tidy."

"Could be. All in the tongue, luv" he leered at her, "with just the right amount of suction."

She threw a fresh cracker at him and it bounced off his face. He plucked it off the couch and crumbled it into his drink as she shook her head at him in bewilderment. "You're the weirdest vampire I've ever met."

Hadn't she just mentioned that she liked things that were weird? Spike gave her a knowing smile. "That a compliment? I'm touched."

"Not a compliment," she said with a mouth full of peanut butter, "Observation."

Seemed to be an excellent time for a segue of topics. "Speakin' of observations, who's the bloke in the photo taped inside your fish book? Kinda unusual place to keep pictures of your nearest and dearest."

She bristled as she turned on him, "Why are you snooping through my stuff? Your batting average for pissing me off tonight is off the charts."

"Been thinking about gettin' one of those teensy fightin' fishes. Thought I'd do some readin' up durin' the commercial break," he said sarcastically, "I'm the Big Bad, snoopin's in the sodding job description. Who's the bloke?"

She stared at him for a long time, still frowning slightly, but really looking at him. Judging him. Deciding if she could trust him. He couldn't remember back to a time that anyone, much less a living, breathing girl, had taken his measure in such a way. It was auto-judgement from everyone else. Spike the vampire, what other reason could he have for doing anything that wasn't for his own benefit? No one had even given it a thought until now, and it made him almost feel like he was a human again. And very uncomfortable.

Deciding whatever it was she needed to decide, at last she spoke, "We were really close. But it's over, he left, I left. And now I'm trying to start over."

"Still doesn't explain what he's doin' in with your gothic romance novels 'stead of on your nightstand."

"Because it's mine," her voice was iron, tempered with some hidden emotion that Spike couldn't quite identify. Anger, perhaps, mixed with a thread of melancholy. "It's just for me to see when I need to, and for everyone else to not see. Unless of course they're a nosy trespassing miscreant who can't keep their hands off my stuff."

He heaved a sigh, thinking of Dru and the awful words she'd said to him before they'd broken up. "Know what it's like, luv. My girl left me a ways ago too, for another demon, and I came back here. 'Course, then, I was lookin' to get her back, but after a while it gets easier. Fades a bit, the longin'. Never really goes away, just gets bearable."

She laughed mirthlessly, "Still waiting for the bearable part."

"Cause you're still holdin' on to the past," he demurred.

"Hardly. I can't go far or fast enough away from the past before it all catches back up."

"Was talkin' 'bout the photo…"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said suddenly, curling her knees into her chest and sinking further into the sofa. "What are you watching?"

" _Dawson's Creek_."

"Hmm. Haven't seen it. Is it any good?"

"It's no _Passions_ , but it's better staring at my smashed telly screen."

She grinned at him, "Smashed, huh? Did you take Bartrax home for round two?"

"Sodding teenagers. Broke into my crypt and took a bat to it. And my all furniture. Left the place smellin' like the inside of a Chuck E. Cheese."

"Not even gonna ask how you know what that smells like."

He flashed a rakish smile at her, "Wasn't always chipped, Charlie Girl." He turned his attention back to the TV as _Dawson's Creek_ returned from commercial break.

"So which one's Dawson and why does he have a creek?"

* * *

He didn't think she'd intended on falling asleep. Bloody well hope she hadn't anyway, else he was seriously losing all credibility as a vampire. The open jar of peanut butter was still balanced precariously on the pillow next to her knee however, so he supposed she was just overtired and lulled by the noise of the television.

One of her sleeves had ridden up on her arm, and he leaned closer to her to see if any of her tattoos were exposed. Not so much. She murmured something, shifted her arms, and Spike quickly pressed himself back on his section of the couch lest she wake up and find him suspiciously hovering over her.

She moved again, more of an agitated gesture this time, and Spike could see she was wincing with her eyes closed as though she were in pain. He was about to wake her when her body writhed, her head tilted back, and she let out the most gut-wrenching, bloodcurdling scream he'd heard in, well, at least a couple of months give or take.

She woke herself up with a start, white-knuckling the couch cushions and looking around wildly, struggling to take control of her erratic breathing.

"Thought most of you humans used one of those alarm things to wake yourselves, but I do see how screamin' your bloody head off would be an effective alternative," Spike said dryly, wondering how thick the walls were between apartments. Given the state of the building, he imagined it fell somewhere between a chewing gum wrapper and a matchstick.

She shut her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face. "Oh great," she took an embarrassed deep breath, "I can't believe that just happened again. Sorry if that caused any hearing damage… I've been having some issues with the whole, you know, sleeping through the night thing."

"Should try sleepin' through the day. Much better for the constitution an' all."

"I happen to like the daytime, but thank you for that unhelpful and unsolicited advice," she commented snidely, grabbing the tv remote off the makeshift coffee table and pressing the power button. The man on the screen enthusiastically selling Mighty Putty disappeared mid-sentence.

"Can't even believe you took a kip with a vamp sittin' right next to you. Gotta death wish I should know about, Charlie Girl?"

"Oh, please," she snorted, "You can't bite me. You can't even hurt me. What are you going to do, lick me to death in my sleep?"

"That a proposition, pet? Took you to be more of a vanilla bird, but if it's kinks you're in to-"

"Oh-kay, I'm gonna leave that one alone."

Spike gave her a suggestive smirk, "Your loss."

Someone banged loudly on Charlie's door, yelling something unintelligible. Charlie's eyes grew wide and she looked at Spike and put a finger over her lips. Another loud thud echoed through the apartment before they could hear the interloper's footsteps echoing back down the hallway.

"Friend of yours?"

"Um. Neighbor."

"Well, aren't you the popular one."

"Hardly. I lost all the popularity points with my neighbors the first night I had nightmares. The second night was even worse. I have negative points… Oh god, I'm like the Wesley Crusher of neighbor popularity."

Spike stifled a laugh, "ten quid says you don't even know your neighbors, pet."

"I know… some of them," she said, making a mock-pouting face at him.

He raised a dubious eyebrow at her.

"There's the… Reynolds, across the hall. And the guy next door… I've been calling him Shorts Guy because he doesn't seem to own pants. And then there's Troll Feet who lives above me."

As if on cue, loud footsteps echoed across the ceiling.

"See? Troll Feet," she said triumphantly.

"So you've been screamin' like that every night? Small wonder they tried to break your door in. Sounded like you were bein' bloody chopped to bits."

"Close. Feels like I'm getting my heart torn out of my chest on a nightly basis."

"Yeah? What's the dream then?" he said, catching a nostalgic glance in her eyes, "That boy, is it? The one in the photo?"

There was a long pause. "How do you do that?" she finally asked, quiet, contemplative.

"Read you like a wide open book? Been alive a long time, and your thinkin's written all over that pretty mug of yours. How's it go?"

She screwed the cap back on her container of peanut butter, fiddling with the lid as she began to talk, "It's always the same. Same place. Same time. I can't move, and he's standing in an open elevator in front of me, pressing the button- see, there's this one that holds the door open..."

"Been in a bloody elevator, luv. I'm dead, not tucked away in a casket."

"Right, of course. So he's pressing it, keeping it open, and he's talking, telling me that I need to remember what he's saying, but I can't. So I start looking through my bag for a pen, a marker, anything so I can write it down on my hand or something, but there's no pen. My bag's completely empty, and I start freaking because I just know this is my last chance."

She ran a hand through her hair, and leaned her chin into her hand, "So I ask this guy standing next to me if I can borrow one, but he just tells me not to be angry because everything's been arranged by the people upstairs. Then he hands me a piece of cheese, gets on the elevator, and the door shuts."

Spike frowned, "Cheese? You're dreamin' about sodding cheese?"

"Yeah, a slice of that shiny orange kind, cut into a triangle. Why? Do you think it means something?"

He let out a snort, "Yeah, prolly means you should nosh on somethin' more than handful of Wheetabix 'fore you tuck yourself in for the night. Still doesn't 'splain why you were screamin' like a banshee in a windstorm."

"Oh, I always start screaming when I look down and realize that the reason I can't move is because there's a knife through my stomach that's pinning me to the wall. Then I wake up."

"Right cozy dream."

"Yeah. Real cozy-like," she said, with a far away look on her face.

"Just need to get out of your box once in while. Go somewhere other than Willy's and this sad 'scuse for a livin' arrangement."

"I've gone other places!"

"And where's that? The grocery on Sixth and Main?"

"Yeah. _And_ I went to that hardware store down the street a few days ago and got some nails so I could hang up a couple of posters," she said, then grimaced after her statement sunk in. "Wow. My life is actually very pathetic."

He shrugged, "Add some booze, music, a little brawling, and that life of yours will be a bit less a tale of woe."

"What I need is a good night's sleep and a securely locked door."

He sighed, looking her squarely in the face, "What you need, pet, is a night off from Willy's to meet the sort of folk that don't want you for an appetizer. Happen to know of a little get together. Could introduce you to a couple of…" it took all of his restraint to not say something derogatory..." friends. Work at the townie magic shop, they do, an' they're like to be there if you're off Saturday."

"Yeah, I'm off Saturday," she said quickly.

Spike furrowed his brow, wondering how the hell it could have been that easy to convince her.

"I mean, probably. I'll have to check with Willy," she backpedaled.

"Right then," he said grabbing a pen and scribbling down the address Buffy had given him on the top flap of the Wheatabix box. He ripped it off and handed it to her as he stood up to leave.

"Ten o'clock. See you there, Charlie Girl. And don't be late."


	6. Chapter 6- So-Called Chaos

He arrived an hour later than he told her, and he used the back entrance, but that was on purpose. Didn't want to look like he actually _wanted_ to be there. He grabbed a full plastic cup of Budweiser off the counter and tried not to gag as he swallowed it down. College students had no scruples when it came to cheap alcohol.

It didn't take long to find her. She was hunkered down in a chair near the corner of the main room, obscured by thick clouds of cigarette smoke and dim lighting. He slunk back in the recesses of the room to watch her as she alternated between staring at the almost full drink in her hand and keeping watch on the front door. A frat boy standing nearby was attempting to make conversation with her, but wasn't faring terribly well. Occasionally she'd give him a few syllables or a tight smile, but made no other attempts at appeasing him.

Spike downed the dregs of his beer, tossed the cup into a terracotta planter, and made his way towards her. When she looked up and noticed him, she sat up a little straighter and the mask of distaste she'd been wearing seemed to slip off, revealing… what was that? Fondness? Relief? A little foreign curl of warmth wound its way into his stomach, and he wasn't completely sure what to make of it. So maybe it was a little strange, but this girl seemed to have no one. No friends, no family. Perhaps that made him the closest person she had in her life, and the thought made him feel a little protective of her.

In any case, the bloke disturbing Charlie needed to go find a hobby. Or a chair, Spike noted as he saw the boy wobble on his feet and take another sip of his drink. "Chattin' up my girl, are you lad?" he asked as he approached the pair, speaking with a touch more hostility than was necessary.

"Spike…?" Charlie gave him a puzzled look as she spoke his name.

The boy hiccuped and laughed, "Your girl, huh? Didn't see a "belongs to" label on her shirt, buddy."

"Yea, well you wankers don't seem to take a hint very-"

"Spike, it's-" Charlie began to interrupt.

"Hang on luv, Big Bad'll teach him what's what."

"Spike!" she hissed, and he stopped to scowl down at her, "he wasn't hitting on me."

"Load of bollocks, he was talkin' and givin' you a good look-over while you were makin' doe eyes at the nearest exit."

"He was asking about my boots. And my jacket. And his boyfriend is over there."

Spike looked back at the boy, and noticed that he now had his hands clasped together with another male partygoer who'd been standing nearby. "Oh, well good for you!" he called out sincerely, as the two backed away quickly.

"So. Been here long?" Spike asked, turning back to Charlie.

She shook her head, flabbergasted at his quick change of topic, "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"I don't know, how about that weird possessive-friend slash fake-boyfriend thing you just pulled? He was super drunk, not super sexually harassing me."

"You looked like misery incarnate, pet. Just tryin' to help you out."

"Ooohhh, you're one of _those_ guys," she said, with a look of semi-amusement, "Well, newsflash, I'm not some damsel in distress looking for savior."

"See that now. Too busy fendin' off the chatty types. Know what your problem is, pet?"

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. "Does it start with the letter S and end in p-i-k-e?"

He ignored her jibe. "You can't stand it. Bein' in a room with all these people and nothin' to do. No bar to separate you from them, no drinks to make, no cute banter to make in passin'. It's just you and them, nothin' to do but talk and you don't want to talk, do you? Cause you're so used to deflectin' and closing people off that havin' a real conversation scares you brainless."

"Stop doing that," she said quietly, her voice so chock-full of repressed emotion that Spike knew he'd hit the nail right on the head.

Before he could respond, Willow was by his side and giving him a playful punch on the arm. "Spike? I thought that was you, you old vampire… pal. Um, who's your friend?"

"Oh, hey, Red," he said, patting the witch uncomfortably on the shoulder, "This is Char- er, Allie."

Charlie shot Spike a look that could have curdled milk.

"Charerallie?" Willow asked, a little louder than was natural. Clearly all of her talent was syphoned into magic making, not lying. "That's um, a really unusual name. Is it like a family name or something?"

"Just call me Charlie. But quietly. I'm kinda keeping a low profile around these parts."

"Ha, I completely understand! Sunnydale is like a magnet for all the badness, and if I worked at Willy's I'd want to keep a low profile too," Willow laughed nervously and then cleared her throat when she realized that she wasn't supposed to know anything about Charlie. "I mean, I thought I heard you say you worked at Willy's, or maybe it was just word on the street…" she looked to Spike as he shut his eyes and clenched his jaw in exasperation.

"Mighta mentioned you to Red here," Spike explained to Charlie, who was also staring at him, though slightly less amiably. "Just that you were attendin' an it might be good for you to meet a few of the locals of the pulse-havin' variety." At least it was partially true.

"Nice to meet you… Red," Charlie said, extending her hand in greeting.

"Oh, it's actually Willow. Spike just calls me Red 'cause he's all about the nicknames. And this is Tara!" Willow said, shaking Charlie's hand and then grabbing the elbow of her pretty girlfriend and dragging her over. Tara smiled and waved shyly.

"So… you guys go to these parties often?," Charlie asked, cringing as the words exited her mouth. "Ugh, just ignore that question… I take my social cues from cheesy soap operas and MTV so my talent for small talk at social gatherings is pretty much non-existent…"

Tara smiled at her reassuringly, "Don't worry. It can be kind of hard being in a g-group of people you don't know. Been there."

"We all come to these things occasionally, but I don't know too many people here either. Just our usual partners in crime," Willow's eyes widened, "Not actual crime, though. Unless hanging out is a crime nowadays!"

"We all?" Charlie asked.

Willow looked around the room, "See the blonde girl over there, dancing with the guy in khakis? That's Buffy and Riley, and the couple over by the drinks is Xander and Anya. We're kinda like the Breakfast Club, but without the detention. We did do the library thing for a long time though, but now we hang out at the Magic Box."

"That's the magic store, right?"

"Yeah! It's a little magic shop that Giles, Buffy's… er… friend opened up downtown. We just started carrying these really cool blessed candles that were made by the monks of Morriganash Valley, and they've got little pieces of bluebells and amber in them!" She waved her hand dismissively, "Ah, sorry! I get really excited about stuff like this, but non-magicy people don't usually know what I'm blabbering about."

Charlie shook her head, "No, that's actually really clever! I never thought to combine bluebells and amber into the wax! Must make your locating spells really easy."

Willow and Tara grinned at eachother.

"And we- we've got the biggest collection of dried herbs in the county," Tara said proudly.

"Yeah? I'm assuming you have sage, it's pretty basic... I've been meaning to do a ritual smudging in the apartment I just moved into. You know, clear away all the bad energy."

Spike choked on a laugh, "Better off just lightin' the whole apartment on fire, pet. Burnin' a couple of namby-pamby herbs'll only make the place smell less like rubbish heap."

Charlie nailed him with a dark look, and turned her smile back at the girls, "How are your stocks of crosses and holy water? My apartment also has a really bad pest problem at the moment..."

"Real funny, Charlie Girl. Gettin' a drink. You girls want-" Spike stopped himself. Since when was he the attentive friend to humans, serving them drinks and taking care of their needs? "Gettin' a drink," he muttered bruskly, and sauntered back to where he's seen a keg when he'd arrived.

He got his drink, but didn't return to where the girls were talking. Instead, he perched himself towards the top of a staircase that overlooked most of the bottom floor, stealing the occasional sip from his beer and playing with his lighter, all the while keeping an eye on everything that was going on at the party. Buffy and her stupid boy-toy were still dancing in the throng of party-goers. The Slayer always had moves, but the commando danced like an inebriated dad at a high school prom.

The Harris boy and his ex-demon girlfriend eventually joined Willow and Tara, and all four were animatedly talking as Charlie looked on, occasionally answering a question or two with a smile that didn't look completely happy. Spike felt strangely put-out. He'd done what was asked of him, getting Charlie to the party so the team could inspect her themselves and try to figure out whatever it was that was going on with her. Didn't mean he liked it. He liked having things just to himself, and now he had to share with the Scoobies. Sharing was for toddlers and socialists, not evil vampires.

After a while, Buffy and Riley mingled in with the group of friends, and Spike strained to hear the conversation. Couldn't hear a blasted thing with the music blaring. He leaned his head against the wooden bannister and watched the brief exchange, glaring at a couple that stumbled up the stairs past him, interrupting his attention. Whatever interrogation had taken place was finished by the time he looked back to the group, and Charlie was back to sitting alone in the corner chair again.

He stood up, massaging a crick out of his neck, and went back down the stairs to join her.

"Magic-aholics Anonymous meetin' over already? Usually takes an hour, then they finish up with donuts, coffee, and a hand-holdin' round of serenity prayers," he said from behind her chair.

She leaned her head back and looked at him upside-down, shrugging as she twirled the ice around in her drink. "Must've been the abbreviated version. They were nice though. I'll probably see them at the magic shop this week."

"Right. And until then, you'll jus' sit here like the life of the party, sippin' at your jack-n-coke, lookin' like someone just cancelled Christmas."

"I'm not-" she began, then stopped. "What's your excuse? Maybe I'm not the most open, sociable person around, but you're the one that invited me here and all you've done is sat at the top of the stairs like a creepy gargoyle."

An unexpected wave of satisfaction rushed over him, at the realization that she'd been keeping an eye on his whereabouts during her chat with the Scoobies. "Vampire, luv. That's my excuse. You're supposed to be the livin' one. Think I'm doin' a better job of it. Least I'm enjoyin' myself."

"Whatever," she muttered, then settled on a look of decidedly female stubborn determination that Spike had grown all too familiar with in the last hundred years of his existance. "No, you know what? I can enjoy myself. I happen to be really good at enjoying myself!" She shrugged off her jacket and tossed it over the chair back. Then she grabbed three shots of clear alcohol off a tray some poor frat pledge in a speedo was carrying around and drank them in rapid succession, coughing a little at the burn when she'd finished the third one.

"Wasn't sayin' you should drink yourself into a stupor, but it's not a bad-"

She was walking away from him before he finished his sentence.

"- plan."

She maneuvered her way into the mob of gyrating bodies just as some sultry number that was heavy on the bass radiated through the stereo. Intrigued, Spike followed, circling the crowd in a predatory fashion to find a better angle to watch her.

A tall, burly man stepped on his foot before he'd made it even half way around. "Hey watch it!" the man barked, eyes listing thoughtfully over the bleach-blond vampire. "Oh, you look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

Spike took in the man's solid olive-green attire, compact muscles, and ugly crew cut. Initiative commando for sure. Maybe coming to the college party hadn't been such a good idea after all. He made an attempt to speak with a more American accent, "Uh, think we're in the same class, the early one on Tuesdays. Introduction to… Combat Formation." That sounded like a class a commando would take, right?

The man narrowed his eyes and leaned in close enough to Spike that he wondered if drunkenness was possible from inhaling alcohol fumes. "Haven't made a morning class since the beginning of the semester… did we have any homework?"

Spike grinned in relief. Leave it to the Initiative to spend all their money on equipment and their high tech facility, and have none left over to hire personnel that had any brain activity. Though it was never the wisest course of action, Spike was itching to mess with the guy.

"No, but next class is one of those away classes," he said, giving in to temptation.

"Field trip?" the man asked.

"Yeah, field trip. To… that awful place… the one that's really far from here."

"Oh, tell me it's not the Plagiarus nest in Sacramento… "

"That's it, the nest. Next class. Attendance counts for the whole grade."

The commando nodded and clapped him on the arm, "Thanks man, I owe you one."

"Don't mention it," Spike purred, and continued moving around the impromptu dance floor until he could see the top of Charlie's head in the crowd.

It had started innocently enough, the girl's arms in the air, and her hips swaying back and forth. She was graceful and lithe, and he enjoyed watching her move. His enjoyment only lasted a few minutes however, as she started grinding up against the first poncey college boy that began to dance with her, running her hands down his arms in a way that raised Spike's hackles. He decided to vacate to the next room when he accidently crushed the glass he'd been holding.

The living room wasn't much of an improvement.

"What's wrong Spike, girlfriend doesn't wanna do the Dance of the Dead?" Xander laughed, pulling a soda out of a cooler, and popping the tab in the most annoying way possible.

"Sod off, Harris," he growled, "or I'll tell everyone that your mum still calls you Pumpkin Doodle."

"Hey! You promised you wouldn't say anything!"

"Evil, remember?" Spike muttered irritably, lighting up a cigarette and shoving his way through the masses of people onto the empty porch where he could smoke in peace. He leaned against the railing and watched the tendrils of smoke curl out of his cigarette, and wondered why he was even at the party to begin with. Was it because he was actually trying to help Buffy and the Scoobies or because he wanted to get Charlie out of the melancholy lifestyle she seemed to have acquired? Either way, he wasn't pleased with the implications.

His quiet reflection only lasted a few minutes before Charlie located him.

"Who'sa party life now, vamp?" she said with a grin. Her cheeks were flushed and she was clutching a fresh cup of beer. "Now you look like cancelled Chris. Christmas," she said, holding on to the railing to steady herself.

"Think you've had enough, pet," he said, crushing the butt of his spent cigarette against the porch post. "Why don't you pass the drink over, and we'll see about gettin' you home."

"No! This is what you _do_ at parties. Drank. Drink, get trashed man," she giggled, "And that Trevor, Hank… Jerry? He said I waspretty."

"Sure he did, Charlie Girl," Spike murmured darkly, "Any bloke with eyes could see that."

She stopped giggling, and tilted her head at him, a tiny crease forming between her brows, "You don't-"

BANG!

The entire porch seemed to explode into a tornado of wood chips and beams, and both Spike and Charlie went catapulting into the side of the house, landing none so gracefully in a heap by the door. Three large scaly-faced demons launched themselves past the steps and landed near Spike's feet, their red eyes glowing with malice.

Spike extricated himself from underneath Charlie's legs, relieved to see that her eyes were fluttering open, and there didn't seem to be any blood. Spike turned his attention back to the demons, "Not that I don't 'preciate a good entrance mates, but you won't get invited back if you take the whole house down before you've even rung the bell."

"WE WILL KILL YOU AND MAKE A NECKLACE OF YOUR FINGER BONES!" one of them roared.

The door swung open by Spike's head and Buffy stepped outside, "Guys, did you even read the last issue of Cosmo? Bone jewelry is sooo last year," she chided, "and I don't think it would look good with your complexion anyway."

All three demons bellowed at the same time and Buffy wasted no time diving fluidly into an attack, with Riley right behind her. Spike helped Charlie stand and handed her off to Tara and Willow, who were standing by the door watching the mayhem. He could hear Anya and Xander through the hysteria that was emanating from the house, yelling to get everyone out and away from the battle. He tested his limbs. No cuts or breaks, just some bruises. Nothing a little brawl couldn't fix.

He shifted into vamp mode, his face changing from its human mask to its demonic visage. And then he grinned and jumped in beside the Slayer and commando, punching, tearing, kicking every scaly limb he came into contact with. Buffy and Riley made quick work of one of them, impaling it with a broken beam from the house.

Spike felt two rock-solid arms slip around his neck as he kept half an eye on the death throes of the skewered demon. Looked like a bloody shishkabob. As he tried to loosen the tightening vise around his neck, he mentally chastised himself for being so unfocused.

He headbutted it, and it released him, clutching at its head and letting out a ear-piercing howl of pain. Taking the opportunity, Spike spun around ducking into a seamless roll and landing on his feet behind the creature. It elbowed him powerfully in the stomach, and Spike felt the sharp pain radiate up his side. Definitely broke a rib or two.

Pissed off and more than ready to kill something, Spike grabbed its head and twisted it with a sickening crunch. The beast dropped into a weighty heap in front of him, and he launched a massive kick into its belly, just to make sure it was really down. It didn't move.

Buffy was still fighting the last demon, and it wasn't tiring out quickly. It swept a massive arm through the air, narrowly missing Buffy's face. She went flying to the ground, throwing herself back into a defensive crouch position at the last second and whaling on its midsection. The demon tried to grab her, but she was too fast, kicking its leg out from underneath it and bringing it to its knees.

Riley moved to help, but she shot him a warning glance, then punched the demon right through the throat. Her arm went right through to the other side, blue slime trickling down her arm as the demon collapsed.

"And to that I say ewwwww," she whined as tried to wipe the viscous fluid off on the grass. She stood up and surveyed the corpses lying in the yard, "I don't know what these were or if there's more of them coming, but I don't want the rest of the group here if they do."

"I'll radio my boys in, but maybe you should stick around until they get here," Riley said, pulling out some strange electronic contraption and moving it over the surface of the demon bodies. The device made a series of beeps and clicks, and Riley's mouth drew into a tight line.

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," Buffy said, directing a questioning gaze at Spike.

"Don't look at me, I'm not stickin' around for Captain Cardboard's Merry Men to show up," he said, changing back into his human form and dusting a bit of grime off his coat as he walked away, "Gotta say it though, my kinda party, Slayer."

The inside of the house was deserted, except for Willow and Tara, who had managed to get Charlie seated in a kitchen chair. Tara was holding a bag of ice to the back of her shoulder, and Willow was on the phone, talking in hushed tones, presumably to Giles.

Spike entered the kitchen and squatted down next to Charlie, "Party's over pet, time to fly."

"My head hurts. And my shoulder hurts."

"No surprise there. Let's get you home," he said, and helped her stand. She wobbled on her feet and clutched at his arm, the heat from her fingers burning into his skin as she tightened her grip.

"I ah- I think-" she mumbled, then sat back down in the chair.

"Spike, we'll take her home," Willow said, putting down the phone receiver, "You should probably go take care of the-" she pointed to his head, and Spike realized he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

He wiped at it with his palm and shook his head, "Buffy wants you both gone now, and kitten here hasn't been out of the cups long enough to make it past the coat closet. So unless you and Glinda feel like waitin' it out to see if Finger Bones has any more kin stoppin' by, I suggest I be takin' her."

"It'sokay. He won't bite. Me. He just eats all the crackers," Charlie reassured the girls.

"'Nuff talkin' pet," Spike said, as he lifted her into his arms and began to carry her out. Her hands shifted around his neck and her face nestled into his chest. His ribs didn't even protest.

She was so warm that he felt he was holding the blazing sun itself to his body, and he wondered if she might burn right through him if he held her for too long. She was quiet for a few minutes as he began walking away from the campus, and he thought she might have fallen asleep until she began to mumble into his shirt.

"You smell like you."

He snorted, "That a nicety or an insult? Sounded about the same."

"Nice. Like smoke. Smokier. Smokey-ish. And your coat." She unclasped her arm from around his neck and he startled when he felt her fingertips graze his cheekbone. "Beautiful," she whispered as she looked up at him, and he almost dropped her.

"Bloody hell, you don't hold your liquor well, do you pet? Gonna stake me in the mornin' if you remember this."

He tried to maneuver her arm back to where it was, but she yelped in pain and a reverberating shock of electricity spasmed in his brain, almost bringing him to his knees. He yelled out a colorful string of agony-induced expletives.

"New plan, Charlie Girl," he said breathlessly, despite oxygen being nonessential to him. "Detour to Spike's crypt. Gonna tie that bloody arm to your side and it's not gonna move until you're back in your bed with your blankets tucked under your chin."


	7. Chapter 7- Sugarcoated

Charlie was quiet the rest of the way to his crypt, and he gently pushed open the door with the toe of his boot and set her down into his chair. She wrapped her arms around her knees and cocooned herself into the seat, promptly falling asleep.

He sighed, and shrugged his coat off, placing it on top of her sleeping form. "Guess this is the last stop for the night, pet," he said, easing himself onto the top of his sarcophagus and prodding at his damaged ribs. He'd be feeling it later, that was for sure, but at least his vampiric abilities would help him heal quickly. He laid on his non-injured side to keep an eye on his companion.

She slept for hours. He might have thought she was dead if not for the fact that he could see the slow rise and fall of her chest from where he was lying. Watching her sleep was oddly soothing, and he realized suddenly how much he missed sharing his life and home with another being.

"Spike?"

He'd fallen asleep, and awoke at the sound of a voice. Startled, Spike's hand shot out and grabbed the transgressor by the front of their shirt, pulling them down so their face was within an inch of his.

"Uh, whoa there. Hi. Not trying to kill you..." Charlie stammered, bracing her hands against the stone slab to stay upright.

He released her shirt once he came to his senses, and pulled himself up stiffly. It was stupid to have fallen asleep on top of the stone, and he winced as his sore muscles pulled against his broken ribs. Yeah, definitely stupid.

He studied the alert girl standing over him, the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement when he realized he was actually counting the freckles on the bridge of her nose. As for the rest of her, the cotton shirt he'd grabbed was a wrinkled mess, and she had a scratch on her cheek that he hadn't noticed when she'd fallen asleep.

"Um... are we in a crypt? Why are we in a crypt?"

He snickered, "Don't remember a thing, do you? Thought you'd have a high tolerance for the hard stuff, you workin' at a bar an' all. Disappointin', it is."

She looked around the room, eyes focusing on the open refrigerator and broken TV Spike had shoved into the corner and understanding suddenly dawned on her features, "Ah. This is your place."

"Home sweet home."

Her eyes grew wide, "Oh god, we didn't… you know..."

Spike regarded her with a heavy lidded gaze and a sensual half-smile, "Was a long night, kitten. After the drinkin' and dancin', there was you and me all over the floor of the back porch, and I think I tore somethin'-"

"-Demons," she interrupted, "I remember now- they were enormous! Did one of them say something about collecting bones?" She began anxiously wringing her fingers, and Spike wondered what had her so on edge. Surely someone that spent most of their time serving drinks to the demon community wouldn't be too perturbed by a few asshole demons out for a meal.

He made an exasperated sound, "Yeah, there were demons. Crashed the party."

"Why were they there? Do you know?"

"Just so happens Sunnydale is sittin' on a thing called a hellmouth." How had she missed getting _that_ memo?

"No kidding. I thought everyone knew that. But why go after people at a college party?"

"Cause the Slayer was there? 'Cause it was eleven at night and someone was feelin' peckish? 'Cause one of them wanted to be a card carryin' member of the Alpha Beta Wanker society? I have no bleedin' idea."

"Slayer?" she asked, suddenly sounding excited, "As in, _into every generation, a slayer is born_? You mean Buffy, don't you? She seemed very… authoritative. But in a quirky, nice way."

Shit. At least she already knew what a slayer was. "You didn't hear it from me," he muttered, watching as she rubbed her shoulder. "By the by, you hit the house like a rag doll, messed up your arm or somethin'."

"Looks like you took a few hits yourself," she said, eyeing his forehead with some concern, "and yeah, my shoulder stings like I got cut or something too."

"Got some bandages and things in the lower level if you want to get fixed up. Not that the cabinets at your royal palace aren't overflowin' with supplies…"

"Toiletries haven't exactly been at the top of my shopping list," she said, letting out a small, self-deprecating laugh, "So, yeah… lead the way."

Spike led her down the ladder to the lower portion of his crypt, and she sat down on the bed while he grabbed the oft-used kit of bandages he'd nicked the last time he stocked up on hospital blood. It occurred to him that he had potentially just given himself an opening to get a glimpse at her tattoos. Maybe memorize a few or write them down to give to Red.

"Should prolly ditch the shirt, luv, so I can get a look at the shoulder," he said, careful to make his words as casual and unassuming as possible.

She blanched a little at the suggestion, and shook her head. "I'll take care of it," she said, sounding equally as casual, "Just give me a mirror or something so I can see it."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Oh. That was stupid. Vampire, no reflection. No mirrors," she said quietly, suddenly looking very shy, "okay… just… turn around for a sec."

"Anythin' else, My Lady of the Blushing Modesty?" he said, rolling his eyes as he turned around, "Could maybe wrangle up one of those Haz-Mat suits if you're fancyin' a wardrobe change." He heard rustling as she removed her shirt.

"Alright, you can look, but just… don't be weirded out by the ink, okay?"

He turned back around. She'd taken off the high-necked blouse, covering her front with it as though it were a towel and tying it in the back. Though it concealed her front with relative ease, her shoulders and back were completely exposed, and the pale tattoos that he'd barely seen the first day he met her cascaded down her back like lines of poetry, swirled around her shoulders and extended almost to her wrists.

It was beautiful and foreign, and he found that he couldn't tear his eyes away. She wrapped her arms around herself as she felt his gaze take it all in; the tattoos, the expanse of smooth, creamy skin, the lines of her back that dipped into two dimples at the base of her spine. Spike tried to compose himself as he felt a rush of carnal desire overtake him. _The Great Poof. Giles. The bloody Initiative. Tapioca. Gile's bathtub._

"Is it bad?" she asked, effectively breaking his line of concentration. He stared again at her naked back, a fresh surge of lust swimming through his body. Self-control wasn't exactly his strongest personalty trait.

"No," he whispered.

"Good. Probably just feels worse than it really is."

He then remembered the reason as to why she'd gotten undressed in the first place, and sat down behind her on the bed to examine her shoulder. A watercolor mess of cerulean and purple blossomed around her left shoulder blade, and a few slivers of wood from the deck were embedded into her skin.

"Just some splinters, pet. Have these out in a tic," he said, dousing some cotton padding from the kit with a bottle of vodka he kept next to his bed. She hissed quietly through her teeth when he laid it against her skin, and he pretended he didn't feel the warmth from her skin that was leeching through the damp cloth.

"So what do they mean?" he asked offhandedly. That was the easy way of finding out, no?

"The tattoos? Don't know."

He stopped dabbing at her skin. "You had them tattooed all over, and you have no soddin' clue what they mean?" he repeated, his voice dripping with incredulousness.

He felt her shoulders tense up, and he paid heed to the mayday signal blaring in his head. "Gotta set of brass ones, pet, I'll give you that. Unusual though, but they suit you."

"Thanks," she said tersely, but Spike was relieved to feel her relax slightly beneath his hands.

The splinters were large enough that he could pull them out with his fingernails, one by one until there was nothing left but tiny punctures. He gave her injuries a final swipe of alcohol, and then there was nothing left to clean or remedy.

Spike let his hand linger on her skin, moving his fingers deliberately along the lines of tattoos. He wasn't sure if it was to help him remember the linework or because he wanted to feel the soft canvas of her flesh that burned at his fingertips and left him craving the sensation all over the rest of him. She stiffened as his touch ascended past her shoulder to the juncture of her neck, but he could feel the pulse quickening in her veins and smell the delicate yet unmistakable honeysuckle scent of her arousal.

He wanted to taste her, put his lips on her skin and trace the patterns her tattoos made with his tongue, but he settled for nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck and gently pressing his mouth just behind her ear. She let out a breathy exhale that drove him near madness.

He slid his fingers into her hair and around the back of her neck, turning her head so their lips aligned and then met in a delectable fusion of hot and cool. He hadn't known, god he hadn't known, how seductive the feeling of a human's hot mouth against his own could be. She moaned in pleasure so quietly it was almost inaudible, and Spike parted her lips with his tongue to coax the sound out again. She wrapped her arms around him then, fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck that had come undone from his usually meticulous style.

The friction between their lips gradually became more demanding, more heated, more invasive, until Spike pulled away from her mouth and nibbled at her jaw.

"Wanna go slow, pet," he said, pulling back and tilting his head to study the effect he'd had on her. She was flushed and glossy-eyed, lips bitten to ripe-strawberry perfection. "Got plenty of time, and I intend on fillin' every minute." He ran his hand lazily down her arm, smirking as she shivered with desire.

"Don't want to do slow," she said, leaning forward in an attempt to capture his mouth with hers again.

"Ah, ah, ah, Charlie Girl," he chided teasingly, holding her back at arm's length, "How poor are they that have no patience? This vamp wants to be bloody King Midas."

"Since when do you get to make the rules?" she pouted.

"My bed, my rules," he said, ducking down to suck on her earlobe, "But if you want another round at your place, be more than willing to let you have your way in the sequel."

"Who said there was going to be a… ahhh... sequel?" Charlie groaned, as he tongued his way down her neck.

Spike looked up at her mischievously, "When I get through with you, luv, you're not going to wanna leave this bed. Know how I read your thoughts like an open book? Can read your body the same way. Figure out what makes you pant, what makes you moan, what makes you ache in all the right places. And then the next time you have an itch you can't scratch, think you'll find that I'm the only one who can fix it. So yeah, there'll be a sequel."

He settled back into kissing her with agonizing slowness, while simultaneously guiding her backwards into the white sheets of his unmade bed. Charlie's hands ghosted over his shoulders, warming the planes of his chest, alighting on the taught muscles of his abdomen, finally brushing their heat against the hardness of his steadily increasing erection and threatening to break down his resolve to take his time.

His touch drifted down to her side and then underneath the cover of her tied shirt, lifting the hem and gliding his fingers over her navel, her hip, and the satin-smooth flesh he found there. Sliding himself downward, he lifted the cloth to nip at her skin, but stopped abruptly when the tattoos he discovered yet again seemed to stare vacantly back up at him.

Well, shit. He didn't plan on being in any state to do much of anything for a good long while once they'd had their fill of each other, so the present time was probably the best time he'd get to collect the sodding tattoo intell. He spotted his poetry journal lying haphazardly on the floor by the bed, chewed plastic pen sticking out between the endpapers.

Who said you couldn't combine work with pleasure? He resumed kissing his way up her middle, while he slid out the pen with one hand and began blindly marking a few of the symbols onto a blank journal page he'd flipped open.

"What was that?" Charlie sat up so quickly he almost hit his head on her chest.

"What?"

"That noise.. the scratching noise…"

"Didn't hear anythin'," he said evenly, continuing to graze her stomach with his lips. He dropped the pen as quietly as he could, and moved his arm in the hopes that she didn't notice the awkward angle it had been draped off the bed. No such luck.

"What are you doing?" she asked peering down at the floor. When she saw the symbols she scrambled out of the bed, untying her shirt and slipping it over her head before Spike could even open his mouth.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she said again, staring at him with enough ire that he began to mentally catalogue all the locations of things in his crypt that he could be staked with.

"Listen, Charlie, I can 'splain-" he stopped, waiting for her to interrupt him so he'd at least have a moment to come up with some half-plausible explanation. But she didn't interrupt him, she just stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to continue.

"Yeah?"

Spike groped for words, knowing full well that there was nothing much to say that would help. "I just… was just tryin' to figure you out. You're a bloody enigma, and I don't like not knowin'."

"So you thought you'd secretly copy down a few of my tattoos for a light study session later?"

"Well, yeah?" It sounded pitifully lame, even to him.

"Bullshit. So is sneakily copying down people's personal stuff like a foreplay thing for you? Or is this something worse?"

Spike had no rebuttal for once in his life.

She grabbed the bottle of vodka he'd used earlier, wrenched the cap off, and dumped the entire contents onto the open pages of his journal. The pen ink seemed to melt away as the alcohol soaked through the pages and then ran through the cracks and grooves of the stone floor.

"And you wonder why I don't open up to people," she said, dropping the bottle to the floor with a loud crash and swiftly moving towards the ladder to haul herself up onto the rungs. "Get bent, Spike." She disappeared up into the top floor of the crypt.

He reached down and picked up the soggy dripping mess that was his journal. There was no salvaging it now.

"Bugger," he cursed, dropping it back on the floor and jumping up to go after Charlie.

By the time he made it to the top of the ladder, the door to the crypt had slammed shut. He flew across the floor, and yanked it back open, only to be almost incinerated by the bright morning sunshine.

He managed to get the door shut again, but not before he'd burned a few holes in his favorite black v-neck and seared a large portion of his arm.

Well bloody buggering fuck-it-all.

* * *

 _A/N: I know, I know! So much tension! But there's still a long ways to go! I'm trying to get a chapter out at least once a week, but the next four weeks is Deadline Palooza 2016 for me so it might not be quite that fast. But still, thanks for all the follows and favs. I've been giving myself an hour or so to write and edit every night once I'm done working, and you guys are making me feel like it's worthwhile. xoxo_


	8. Chapter 8- Secondhand Colloquies

He tried to redraw some of the symbols for Willow. Really, he did, but since most of the ones he'd copied down were now a dried mess of crinkly paper and ink stains it wasn't an exact science. He managed to get a vague approximation down on a fresh sheet of paper, and met her at the shop after the sun had gone down.

Willow scrutinized the marks, flipping back and forth between various pages of a runic text, occasionally stealing a sip of coffee and frowning in concentration at the papers laid out before her. "Uh, Spike, are you sure these are right? There's not a couple of intersecting lines missing or anything?"

"Not a bloody calligrapher, Red. And it's a fair shot more accurate than the lot of you could get," he grumbled, still frustrated over the incident with Charlie, and the fact that she'd destroyed a years worth of poetry and musings he'd inscribed within the journal. Maybe it wasn't Laureate worthy, but he'd put in a hell of alot of effort.

"Yeah, I know. It's just that there's nothing in the books that look exactly like these. Take this one for instance," she said, pointing to the topmost symbol, "if it's missing a line or two, it could be the one for willingness of spirit. Or distilled vinegar… oh. Or the demon god Aggagor, but I don't think that could be it because he's all about the human sacrificing, and Charlie's pretty nice. Right?"

"Haven't seen her slittin' throats if that's what you're askin'."

"Well that's good I guess, since Buffy was off all morning looking into the latest case of disappearing souls. Two more bodies, can you believe it? It's like someone put up a giant billboard somewhere that says _Sunnydale: Shiniest, Freshest Souls for Miles_ or _Excellent Soul Quality, Easy Pickin's_."

The witch cracked open a second compendium and looked back down at her research. "Oh, and look here, and this one could potentially be the symbol of endurance or the symbol for blood letting, depending on how far this line actually extends," she said, running her finger along one of the marks on the third symbol he'd rewritten.

"So what you're sayin' is that you have no soddin' clue what they mean, and this little exercise in frustration was all for naught, yeah?"

"Did it go badly?" Willow asked, sensing his irritation and looking back up at him.

" _Did it go badly?_ " he mimicked contemptuously. "It was a fucking disaster, Red. One minute it's bloody heaven and the next there's a week's worth of Russia's Finest soakin' into my memoirs. Buffy's fault, you know." Technically, he knew it wasn't actually Buffy's fault, but it felt so much better placing the blame on someone else's shoulders. Especially if that someone else was perky, blonde, and full of spite for him.

"I know you're upset, but I don't think that Buffy actually told you the method by which you should acquire these," she said gently, "And it wasn't her idea to follow Charlie around to start with. If I'm remembering correctly."

"Yeah, well… maybe she should've… maybe she… bugger it all! Charlie's avoidin' me now and it's not fair, you know?"

It was true. He'd gone to the bar that night, expecting to have at least a few minutes to try and talk to her, only to find that Willy was the one serving drinks. And then he went to her apartment to find that she was in fact there, but unwilling to answer the door when she found out it was him knocking. She'd installed a new deadbolt and there was no way Spike could get in without breaking the door, which certainly wasn't going to win him any favors. He'd sat miserably in her hallway until it was almost daybreak before he realized it was a lost cause.

"Maybe you could just tell her you're sorry?" Willow offered.

"Do you think she's more of a Sex Pistols girl or more The Ramones Greatest Hits?"

"I think you would know more about her musical taste than me. But maybe you could just apologize?"

"What about a mix tape? You birds still dig that kind of thing, right?"

"Ok, maybe not so much with the apologizing then. You should just… I dunno… at least give her a few days? To you know, let her cool off before you try talking to her again."

"Could make a tape of songs that have the word 'sorry' in it." Did he even own any music that had the word sorry in it? He suddenly wasn't sure if he could fill an entire tape.

Willow just stared at him blankly.

"Friday. I'll give her till Friday, and then she's getting some bloody music shoved under her door," Spike declared.

* * *

Blood by itself was alright. Nothing spectacular when it was out of a bag from the hospital refrigerator, or worse, from an animal and out of plastic tupperware from the butchers. Nothing could ever beat the taste of fresh blood, pouring like a warm chocolate fountain out of a human's punctured artery.

In his century of blood connoisseurship, Spike had discovered a thing or two that made a less than desirable blood quality taste more palatable, Burba Weed being among them. Luckily for him, the Magic Box had a seemingly endless supply of the spicy herb which they kept not four feet from the trap door that led to the sewer access. It was almost like they purposely left it there for him to take.

So it annoyed to him to a great degree when he came through said trap door the following Wednesday afternoon, opened up the giant container of Burba, only to find a post-it note inside that said "if you want it, go upstairs and pay for it" in Gile's teeny tiny cursive scrawl. It'd taken him twenty minutes to walk to the shop via the sewers, and how the hell was he supposed to know that he needed to bring cash?

He didn't hear the usual Wednesday commotion of heavy foot traffic above him, so he figured it would be worth his while to go upstairs and at least attempt to lift some. It'd been a week since Buffy or the Watcher had last given him any money for information, so they owed him. He wasn't a charity service.

Peering past the crack in the door for any sign of Rupes, who would surely see right through his delinquent intentions, Spike was encouraged to only see a trio and a half of Scoobies present, all well occupied. Willow had her head bent over a laptop and was typing away furiously. Xander was hunkered into a chair next to her, apparently helping Dawn study, and Anya was gleefully ringing out a short line of customers that had formed by the register.

Spike knew they kept the Burba Weed in a bin behind the register, and if he could just slip in and out while Anya was helping a customer- wait. There it was again, that scent of something old and earthy, breezing in through the front door, not from the heavily scented herbs and spices from the numerous bins behind the counter. Charlie, dressed in her usual black boots and oversized olive jacket, was carefully shutting the door behind her and absorbing the ambiance of the store.

He watched as her eyes settled immediately on Willow who, sensing she was being observed, clicked her laptop shut and got up to greet the newcomer. "Hey Charlie!" she said brightly, "I wasn't sure you'd be stopping by!"

"Ugh, yeah. Work stuff. Just got super busy and this is the first day I've had off in a while," Charlie said, still curiously looking around the shop, "this is so cute! How long has it been open?"

"Not very long, but it used to be owned by someone else before Giles took it over. Technically it's been here a few years."

"Well, it's the nicest magic shop I've ever been in."

"It is Your One Stop Spot to Shop for All Your Occult Needs. Do you want the grand tour? Fully narrated with refreshments at the conclusion?" Willow asked with a smile. "And by refreshments I mean powdered coffee or lipton. Your choice."

Spike halfway considered stepping into the room, but quickly crushed the idea. As much as he wanted to clear the air with Charlie, he was interested as to what her motivation for being in the magic shop was, and felt he'd get a much better sense if she didn't know she was being observed the whole time. Also, he was reasonably certain that she'd leave the second she saw him, and with the copious sunshine outside, there was no way he could follow after her.

Charlie was smiling at Willow's suggestion of a tour. "With an offer like that, how could I say no?" she asked, patting the snout of a stone gargoyle on one of the display tables, "Let's start here. Who's this little guy?"

"Oh, that's just Jeeves," Willow said, brushing away some dust that had collected on top of the statue, "I like to think he keeps an eye on the place for us, keeps out all the riff raff. He also makes a really good doorstop."

"And that's why you should never take a gargoyle for granite," Xander said with a grin, standing up and checking his watch. Spike rolled his eyes, certain that the boy got all his bad jokes from an endless supply of popsicle sticks.

"Well ladies," Xander continued, "it's been a fun afternoon of… afternoon things, but the Xand-man must be off. Dawnster, you set with the rest of the homework?"

"Yep. I know my Kepler from my Copernicus," came the chipper reply.

"Excellent, Excellent. And if you ever forget who Galileo was, remember that he was just a poor boy, from a poor family," Xander broke into falsetto as he exited the store, "Spare him his life from this monstrosityyyyyy."

Some of the customers stared and the girls all broke into a fit of giggles as the door shut behind him.

"Is he always like that?" Charlie asked, and Spike couldn't tell if she thought Harris was actually funny or a complete moron. He seriously hoped the latter.

"Worse," Willow said with an affectionate shake of her head, "Usually so much worse."

"Oh, wow, look at all the books!" Charlie suddenly exclaimed, and stepped further into the store, and Spike moved a few inches further past the door so he could see what was going on whilst concealed by shelves of merchandise and beaded curtains. "This is amazing... I've never seen so many on mysticism all in one place!"

Anya had just finished up with her customer line as the two girls walked by, and was clearly feeling left out of the conversation. "Do you want to see the money?" she asked cheerfully, hitting the "open" button on the register.

"Ah… sure?" Charlie said, taking a bewildered step back towards the ex-demon.

"Actually, Anya, why don't we save that for the end? It'll be like the… the... grand finale!" Willow said, quickly grabbing Charlie's elbow and guiding her towards the book shelves at the farthest end of the store. Spike was glad it wasn't too much further away. Vampire hearing had its limits, but he could still make out every word that was being said.

"Sorry," the witch said under her breath, "Anya's a little… I'm gonna say blunt, but what I really mean is totally clueless. She's um… not from around here."

Charlie waved her hand dismissively. "No worries. I grew up with a few people like her."

"Yeah? Where are you from?"

The brunette ran her hand along a row of books on American magical histories, "Oh, here and there. Moved around alot when I was a kid. Settled in Renton for a while but it didn't stick."

"Oh, in Washington? Is it nice? I've never been there."

"It was nice until it wasn't, hence the moving out," Charlie said, "Have you always lived in Sunnydale?"

The good old dodge-the-question-with-another-question tactic. Though Spike was glad he wasn't the only one who'd been on the receiving end of it, it made for some frustrating conversation.

"Born and raised in Sunnydale," Willow confirmed, "Survived a few apocalypses and couple of high school employees that turned out to be, well, not on the side of good. Hyena people, bad mojo candy bars, vampire doppelgangers... all this, and yet somehow I still call it home."

"Willow! Can you come talk to this idiot on the phone?" Anya was gripping the earpiece, leaving the transmitter uncovered she yelled out to the redhead. "She thinks that we can just get her some Momfrit eggs, no problem, and I've told her like six times that they're only available in the summer, and she says she doesn't like my tone of voice. What's wrong with her?"

"Excuse me for a sec," Willow said with a grimace, and left to tackle what Spike was sure to become a customer service nightmare.

His attention shifted to Dawn as she shut her notebook with a dramatic sigh, and walked over to where Charlie was perusing the books. The teenager read a few of the titles before pulling a leather-bound book off the shelf, seemingly under the pretense of needing to borrow it.

"So you're this Charlie that everyone keeps talking about. I totally thought you were a guy. I'm Dawn," she said, after giving Charlie the side-eye for a few minutes.

Charlie looked up from the paperback she was flipping though and smiled warmly back at the girl. "Nice to meet you, Dawn. I didn't realize I was a topic of conversation… nothing bad I hope?"

"Eh, I think it's all good, but nobody really tells me anything. You know, virgin ears and all," Dawn said, rolling her eyes.

"Could be worse. I work at a demon bar and I hear waaaay more than I want to hear on a nightly basis. I'll gladly take those virgin ears off you and I probably shouldn't be saying that in a magic shop," Charlie looked around, "You guys don't actually sell ears, right…?"

The Watcher would definitely put his foot down, but Spike was fairly certain that Anya would more than willing to sell the ears of any species or morality level if the profit margin was high enough.

Dawn shelved the leather hardcover, giving Charlie her undivided attention. "You work at a demon bar? That is so cool! I wish I could work somewhere like that. How old do you have to be to get a job there?"

"I think you have a few years to make up your mind, but if you still want it when you're eighteen I'll put in a good word with Willy. Just make sure he pays you in cash and not kittens."

"Kittens?"

"It's a demon-payment thing," Charlie explained, "Sometimes as a last resort Willy will take them instead of money, which is his prerogative, but not so good if he tries to pawn them off on you."

"But… kittens…" Dawn pouted.

Charlie laughed, shaking her head. "Oh no, you're gonna be one of those crazy cat ladies. I can already tell."

"Maybe," Dawn smiled. "You must get to hang out with Spike all the time. Buffy said that he practically lives at the bar."

"I'm pretty sure that his usual seat at the bar has permanently molded to the shape of his butt by now," she said. "Not that I've been checking out his butt or anything," she quickly added. Spike grinned at her denial. It was far too vehement to be truthful.

"So do you guys like knit together or something?" the Slayer's little sister asked.

"Haha, what? No, why would you think that?"

"Just something that Willow said the other day. I don't think she knew I was listening, but she was talking to Tara and said that she'd never seen Spike sew mittens with anyone as much as with you." Dawn wrinkled her nose, "At least I _think_ that's what she said, but she said "mitten" like "s'mitten" so I thought maybe it was French knitting or something."

"Right," Charlie said, the amusement disappearing from her face, "Yeah, French knitting. Ask him if he figured out the two-faced stitch the next time you see him."

She was definitely still pissed. Perhaps she needed a few more days before he came around. And what the hell was Red doing, talking about him, bloody dissecting his relationships with other people? Nosy bint needed to keep to her own.

"You know what?" Dawn was saying, as Spike tuned back into the conversation, "You should totally come for Willow's birthday party on Friday!"

"Aw, Dawn, that's sweet, but I don't really know everyone very well and I wouldn't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing!" Dawn said, then yelled over to Willow, "She can come to your birthday party, right?"

Willow covered the mouthpiece of the phone, "Oh, yeah, sure! That'd be nice, you should come, Charlie. Eight o'clock, just bring yourself and an appetite for cakey-deliciousness!"

"Um, is Spike going to be there?" Charlie discreetly asked Dawn, quiet enough that Spike almost couldn't hear what she'd said.

"No. Bummer, right? He never goes to these things, something about blah blah blah, he's a vampire, Dawn, not your friend, blah blah blah."

"Yeah, bummer. But I'm free, so yay, party!" Charlie said. That one stung a little, on top of the fact that he hadn't been invited to the party. Not that he'd ever admit to wanting to go, but he at least wanted to the opportunity to flatly turn down any invitation with a furrowed brow and a biting remark.

He stole a glance at Willow, who had finished her phone conversation with the angry customer, and was standing behind an oblivious Anya, looking for all the world as though she wanted to strangle her with the phone cord. With a glance at the wall clock, she hung up the phone and called out to the Slayer's little sister. "Dawnie, it's almost five, and your mom wants you home for dinner."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going," Dawn muttered, walking back to the table to collect her various study aids and throw them into her backpack.

Willow stepped past the counter and returned to where Charlie was re-shelving some of the books she'd been browsing through. "So, tour commence?"

Charlie gave her a tight smile. "Actually, I hate to have to cut it short, but I didn't realize it was so late, and I have something of an appointment. Raincheck?"

The witch nodded. "Of course! Any time!"

"Thanks," Charlie said, and made her way to the front counter, where Anya was busy organizing a selection of brightly colored crystals into the counter display.

The ex-demon looked up from her work, "So did you come here to buy something, or did you just want to look at the books? This isn't a library, you know."

"Yeah, actually there are a few things I need," Charlie said, examining the items on the shelf behind the register. The whole wall was lined with glass jars of fragrant dried herbs, sands of varying textures, a slew of rocks and crystals, and Spike had counted at least ten different kinds of salts at one point. "I'll take a baltic stone and bag of that Umed sand."

Anya stopped sorting to look up at her, wide-eyed, "Are you trying to open a portal?"

Charlie laughed, "More like trying to close the one in my brain. I've been having trouble sleeping, and baltic stones are supposed to help with that."

"Huh. That's a new one," Anya said, pulling the requested items from the back shelves and wrapping them swiftly in purple tissue paper. "How do you use it?"

"You put it under your pillow. And there's some incantations, kind of boring, but effective." Charlie said, leaning her elbows against the counter and squinting at the floor. "What's that?" she asked, "in the case on the floor?"

Spike knew exactly what case she was talking about. The velvet lined glass box was about the size of a briefcase and was filled with an assortment of knickknacks and brass-toned jewelry. Not his style, but it was certainly eye-catching and would fetch a decent price on the black market. Or at poker night.

Anya looked down at the items on the floor with a measure of disdain. "Oh, it's nothing special. Just an estate lot that was donated to us. It belonged to some magician that disappeared in the 30's."

"Wow, so you guys just got the whole lot? That's pretty cool. Have you gone through it yet?"

"The majority of it. Giles got an offer from a museum in England that wants to buy it from us though, so after we catalogue it, we'll be shipping it off."

"Wait," Charlie said, tilting her head in confusion, "you aren't going to sell any of it here?"

"Yeah, how ridiculous is that? I do all the work, and some stuffy museum buys the lot at a discounted price. I could make so much more money if I sold this off piece by piece."

"Don't you get a choice in what gets sold? I mean, it looks like you practically run the place. Seems to me that you should get to pick what stays and what goes."

"I like you," Anya beamed at her, seemingly thrilled to be receiving such high praise. It really didn't take much to swing her favor in either direction. "You understand the value of being a hard-working employee."

"I just think that everyone involved in a business should have as much say in what goes on if they're putting their energy into running it," Charlie said, eying the case again.

"Well, tell that to Giles," Anya grumbled, as Willow walked behind the register and began pulling a few spoonfuls of herbs from the bins. Anya whipped a ledger out from underneath the counter and began scribbling down the name and quantity of each item that was taken, totaling up the cost when she was finished and writing it on another page that Spike knew for a fact was titled "Money Willow Owes Us". Then she snapped the book shut.

"So you don't think that if someone offered him a huge wad of cash for the one of the items, he'd sell it and just tell the museum it got lost or something?" Charlie inquired, still focused on the estate case.

Anya and Willow exchanged a knowing smirk.

"You haven't met Giles, have you?" Anya asked.

Willow raised an eyebrow, "Let's just say he's very English, and very… by the book."

"That's one way of puttin' it," Spike muttered under his breath. "Course, just sayin' he's got a stick up his ass is a fair lot more accurate." A young man who'd been shopping for candles a few feet away gave Spike a startled look and moved himself swiftly to the other end of the room.

"Right. English," Charlie said somewhat glumly as she handed Anya a few bills and took her shopping bag.

"So, Friday? You'll be here?" Willow asked.

She gave the redhead a genuine smile. "Yeah, I'd like that actually. It'd be nice to hang out with some girls for a change."

"You've been spending lots of time with Spike, I hear."

Charlie let out a snort of almost-laughter, " _Been_ being the operative word. Look, I know you're good friends-"

Willow began to laugh, then apparently thought better of accidentally exposing the real situation, and turned it into a cough.

"-but he kind of pissed me off the other day, and I think I might be better off not being around him. At least for now."

Willow nodded in understanding. "Well, Friday will be Spike-free. He's got a thing that he needs to do. A Friday thing."

"Bowling," Anya piped up. "He bowls on Friday."

"Yeah, uh, bowling," Willow said, giving Anya a funny look.

"He's got this vampire bowling league he goes to, where they bowl all night and sit around drinking White Russians, as in the alcoholic drink, not caucasians from the northern Eurasian country. And they all have bowling shirts and it's run by a guy named the Dude," Anya continued to ramble, still pushing the fabricated bowling story.

Charlie smiled a little as she tied a knot in her plastic shopping bag, "Sounds like fun. Thanks for the mini-tour guys. I'll see you both Friday!" As she walked towards the door, Spike quickly shoved himself back behind the basement door. He watched as the late afternoon sunlight hit strands of gold and auburn in her hair, and for the millionth time he wished he could walk in the sunshine.

" _The Big Lebowski_? Really?" Willow asked Anya, as soon as the door had shut behind Charlie.

"I panicked, okay? Geez, sorry."

Spike descended the stairs to the basement and left the squabbling girls, crawling moodily back through the trapdoor to the sewers. Bowling? Not only did they put effort into not inviting him to the shindig, they actually lied about why he wasn't attending. And _they_ were supposed to be the good guys.

 _Sod it_ , he thought. They were having a party in a public building, and it was still a free country. Charlie was attending. Friday, was it? He'd be there with bloody bells on.


	9. Chapter 9- Goodnight and Go

As he headed back to his crypt, Spike decided it might be better if he cleared the air with Charlie before the party. He didn't want there to be a scene, especially when he had taken such pains to make it seem as though he had everything under control. He was also very curious about what kind of appointment she'd been referring to in the store, so he made a detour through the sewers to as close to her apartment as he could get, then pushed his way out of the manhole the second the sun was low enough.

He could hear her talking to someone in her apartment as he made his way down her hallway. At first he thought she might have company, there were so many smells in the damned apartment building that it was next to impossible to discern who had passed through, but he quickly realized that her conversation was very one-sided. He pressed his ear to the door.

"No, it's been okay. You know, lifey. I think we're finally getting to where we need to be though. I told you I'm in with the circle of friends now, right? Yeah. Well I found it, the whole collection. Bit of a problem acquiring it, but I have something in mind." There was a long pause. "Yeah, I will. They're having a birthday party at the shop this coming Friday night, so set your watch and be ready," another pause, "I know. Love you too, see you soon." He could hear the click of the receiver as she hung up the phone.

Knock down the door and bust her now? Christ, he knew she'd been hiding something, and aggravatingly, he still didn't know what it was. He needed to play his cards right. She wouldn't take kindly to knowing she had been eavesdropped on. No, he thought as he walked away, his best bet was to show her that she could trust him, which meant that he'd be keeping this little gem of a telephone conversation to himself.

* * *

Spike wasn't sure why any of the Scoobies bothered having birthday parties anymore, since awful things always seemed to happen whenever they were celebrating. It was as bloody predictable as the sun rising, the raising of taxes, and Giles cleaning his glasses when he was feeling perturbed. In fact, the high probability of an "incident" occurring was a large part of Spike's desire to attend in the first place.

These were his thoughts anyway, as he arrived for the party through the shop's training room, thinking that he was being stealthy. It'd be harder for anyone to kick him out if he just materialized into the group of the partygoers rather than make an obvious appearance at the front door. He immediately regretted his constant need to be inconspicuous when he realized that Anya and Xander had stolen away from the party for a few minutes for a makeout session on top of a stack of gymnastic mats, and he had just walked in at a pivotal moment.

Xander blushed scarlet before regaining his some of his composure, "Spike, I see you still haven't figured out that pesky knocking before entering thing."

Spike whipped up a satirical look of pity for the Scooby. "And I see you still haven't sussed out which one's second base."

"Did he just insult your sexual prowess?" Anya asked, crinkling her brow at Xander, "Because, Spike, I can assure you that there is nothing lacking in Xander's knowledge of sex things."

"Um, thank you, hun," Xander said, his crimson hue deepening. "Spike, it's Willow's birthday party, not a meeting. Why are you here?"

"Well I got somethin' for Red, and it wouldn't be right if I didn't pass it off to her."

Xander looked at Spike as though he'd just told him the earth was hollowed out and filled with teddy bears. "Huh? In what dimension are you concerned with the making of the nice?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist 'cause I like the witch more than you, Harris," Spike said as he made his way into the main room of the magic shop.

Bouquets of colorful helium-filled balloons were tied to several of the chairs, streamers fluttered from bookcase to bookcase, and a giant paper happy birthday sign was draped across the register counter. Willow sat at the round table, giggling with a mouth full of icing at something Tara had whispered in her ear. Buffy, Charlie, and Dawn were amiably chatting away nearby, and the Watcher was slicing himself a modest sized piece of birthday cake.

Buffy looked away from the conversation and gave him a frown when she saw him stepping in from the doorway. "Oh, look everyone. It's Spike."

"Sorry I'm late," he blustered. A quick look at Charlie was all he needed to ascertain that she was still upset. She met his eyes tempestuously, then excused herself to the restrooms.

"Oh, don't worry," Buffy said to him, with a not very reassuring smile as they both watched Charlie walk away, "you're not late, you weren't invited."

"Not here for the merriment, Slayer, just gotta present for the birthday girl," Spike said, pulling a well-worn book out of his coat pocket and handing it to Willow.

He hadn't bothered to wrap the gift, obviously. Too much effort and he wasn't Martha sodding Stewart. It was an old book of spells he'd won off a game of poker a few years back when the demon he was playing against had run out of cash. He'd kept it, not knowing what to do with it. It was the only thing in his crypt that he could possibly pass off as a birthday present for a witch.

Willow seemed heartily surprised by his gesture, examining the worn leather cover and clutching to her chest. "Aw, thanks Spike! I mean, you didn't really didn't hafta, but this is so sweet of you!"

"Don't mention it," he mumbled, a little embarrassed.

"Um, do you want some cake? It's chocolate," Tara asked, holding out a pre-cut slice on a paper plate.

"Maybe in a bit, Glinda," he said with a tight smile.

"Willow," Giles said, handing the redhead a box carefully wrapped in shiny silver paper, "I think you'll be amused by the timing of this, I couldn't believe it myself, but there it was, sitting in a box that had just arrived at the store!" Spike tuned out the rest of the Watcher's peppy speech and glanced in the direction Charlie had gone.

She hadn't returned, and Spike discreetly meandered towards the front of the store. Everyone else in the room was occupied watching Willow open Rupert's gift, and Spike slipped into the women's bathroom, quickly checking to make sure there was no one was in the stalls. Charlie was leaned over the sink, elbows propped on the ceramic edges, staring morosely at her reflection. She turned at the sound of him quietly shutting the door.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"You and me need to have a little chat, pet."

She laughed scornfully, turning her back on him. "No, actually we don't, and I think you should leave."

Facing the mirror, she didn't see him sweep in behind her to murmur in her ear. "Just got here. And I plan on stayin' till the sticky sweet endin'."

"There isn't going to be a sticky sweet _anything_!", she insisted, turning around and swatting at him.

"Was talkin' 'bout birthday cake, luv, but if you have other ideas…" he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"Yeah, actually I do have some other ideas. I'm bursting with other ideas, starting with a little honesty from you. What do you want from me, Spike?"

That was the million dollar question. If she'd asked him two weeks ago, he'd have said… well, he'd have lied his ass off about it, but he _had_ wanted an in with the Scoobies, and following her around was an interesting means to an end. Now? He just wanted to be around her for the sheer enjoyment he got out of it; the conversations, the banter, the physical attraction that he _knew_ was constantly bubbling under the surface. He didn't really care what she was up to, whether she had some nefarious intentions or not, he was starting to want to be a part of it.

"Didn't mean to brass you off the other night, Charlie. Know it's hard to see, but I'm on your side. And can help if you need it, just say the word."

She began to step around him and he quickly braced his arms against the sink, trapping her in between them.

"That wasn't even an answer," she said, glaring at him angrily. "And I don't see why I should believe a word that comes out of that sweet-talking mouth of yours anyway, vamp."

He leaned in close enough that he could feel her breath against his face. "Knew you fancied my mouth, Charlie Girl, but don't think you've gotten full tour."

She put a firm hand against his chest and stubbornly pushed him back to a less invasive distance. "And I don't intend to take the tour, unless it involves a fully paid ticket to Spike-tells-all and a refund if I don't like what I hear."

"And just what is it you want to hear, pet?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, "I want to know why the hell you've been hanging around me for the past two weeks and why you were copying down my tattoos in your diary, Judy Blume."

Spike weighed his options.

He really didn't have much to lose by telling her the truth. The slayer and the gang, on the other hand, potentially had much more to lose, but he had gone skating past the point of caring in the last two days. He'd been bored and pining after Buffy when he'd started sticking his nose into Charlie's life, and he was currently neither of those things.

"Slayer and her pals didn't trust you," he admitted. "Wanted to know why you're here and left it to Spike to do the diggin'."

"Why didn't they trust me? I didn't even meet them until the party that you took me- oh," she shut her eyes for a moment as the realization began to unfold, "Silly me. They knew about me long before the party… since you came into the bar."

"There's been some murder most foul as of late. You showed up right as it was gettin' goin' with a phony nom-de-guerre and strange ink all over this skin," he said running his fingers slowly up her arm. She didn't push him away.

"What could you have possibly dug up that makes me untrustworthy? I haven't done anything, besides not wanting to talk about my uber sucky past, which shouldn't count against me. I'm not the kind of person that wants to open up their baggage and fling their dirty laundry around for everyone to see."

"Didn't find much worth tellin', pet. Kept some of it to myself anyway. Know how to keep this sweet-talkin' mouth shut at times," he said with hint of amusement, as he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.

She exhaled a laugh, "Yeah, what times? You don't stop talking. Ever."

"So, about that full tour..."

"What about it?"

"Still want it?" he purred silkily, running a finger down the side of her temple and across her bottom lip.

She closed her eyes and he could hear her heart rate begin to accelerate as he slid his finger down her neck and into the valley between her breasts. Charlie's lips parted as her breathing began to quicken, and suddenly she had her hands around his head as she crashed her mouth into his with a speed and conviction that Spike hadn't been expecting. Not that he was complaining.

He consumed her lips with a tenacity to match her own, palming at her chest with one hand while the other crept down to her backside, sliding underneath the band of her jeans. When had he decided that he needed her so badly he'd risk his precarious position with the white hats and accost her in the unlocked bathroom of White Hat Headquarters?

"So soft, so bloody warm," he groaned into her mouth, as he lifted her up to sit on the ledge of the sink. She wrapped her legs around him, and he nearly lost it when she ground herself against his painfully stiff erection.

He began to unbuckle his pants.

"No! What are you doing? Not here! Everyone's in the next room!"

"That's what makes it excitin', luv. Somebody could walk on in, right as I'm stickin' it-" She covered his mouth with her hand, squeaking as he stuck his tongue out to lick her palm.

"Your crypt-" she whispered, "half hour. Meet you there, I'll leave in a few minutes."

"And why the bloody hell can't we leave together?"

She looked down at the prominent bulge in his pants and then back up at his face. "Hi, new friends. As much as I'd like to hang out and get to know you, I can't control my libido so Spike and I are going to head on out. Happy birthday, Willow."

He decided to test the waters and subtly bring up the telephone conversation he'd overheard. "See your point, but how much do you really care 'bout making friends?"

"Of course I care. Isn't that why I'm here?" she asked suspiciously.

Perhaps a conversation for a later time. "Better get there quick, pet. Gonna do things to you that'll make you come over and again until your toes curl and you forget your name."

He kissed her fiercely then, leaving her blushing and out of breath as he hastily exited the bathroom and then the front door, walking at a jaunty pace towards his crypt and thinking of what he was going to do to her when she arrived. Taking her on top of his sarcophagus featured prominently, but his shower was definitely the setting for one or two fantasies as well.

All it took was five minutes down the road with his imagination for company before he decided he couldn't wait a half hour, and turned back towards the shop. Sure, he got why she didn't want to fuck in the store, but he knew of at least six alleyways within walking distance that they wouldn't be disturbed, and her apartment was at least ten minutes closer to the Magic Box.

By the time he made it back, the shit was just hitting the fan.

Anya stood at the register with her hands on her hips, speaking to the Watcher in her usual blunt and commanding tone, "I told you I didn't lose it! I'm a GOOD employee Giles. The ring was in the case when I got here tonight, and now it's gone, and the only people that left the store are Charlie and… Spike?" She caught sight of him lurking in the doorway.

"Of course it was Spike!" Xander asserted, "Why are we even discussing this?"

Giles put his glasses back on, "Yes, well, if we're talking about stealing, I must say that all signs do point to-"

"No, not _the thief is Spike_. Spike, as in, _hey look, it's Spike_ ," Anya said impatiently, pointing towards where he was standing. He walked the rest of the way into the shop, and leaned against the counter, glaring at the entire group.

What would it take with these people? It didn't seem to matter how much effort he put in, he was always going to get the first blame. "Gotta say, I'm right hurt that you think I'd be nickin' things from the store, I would nev- okay, yeah, maybe there was a thing or two here and there, but I sure as hell didn't take anything tonight."

Buffy sighed in frustration. "Well that leaves one suspect. And just when I was starting to like her." She pulled a plate of cake away from Dawn, who was mindlessly poking at the dessert with a plastic fork.

"Wait? We're just going to believe him?" Xander declared, "How many times has he lied to us before, huh? He could've just gone and put it somewhere, and then he comes back and makes with the innocent act."

Spike gave the boy an icy smirk, "Sounds like someone's been thinkin' mighty hard 'bout gettin' away with petty larceny." To be fair, Spike had tried to just think about the time that Xander had caught Syphilis instead of directing a verbal assault at him, but the results just weren't as satisfying.

"It's gotta be Charlie," Willow said thoughtfully, "She was asking a whole bunch of questions about the items from the Rendixen Estate when she came in the other day. She must have been casing the shop."

"So what so we think she wants with some ugly old magician's ring? It looked all brassy. I bet it leaves one of those yucky green marks around your finger if you wear it too long," Buffy said, stretching out her fingers and checking underneath her rings for any signs that they were less than high quality.

"Or more like… how much of a problem is this going to be?" Xander asked, looking first to Giles, and then at Anya. "On a scale from one to apocalypse?"

Anya shook her head, practically on the verge of tears. "Well if Giles fires me over this, it's going to be terrible. You'll have to pick up double shifts at work so we can keep the apartment, I'll never see you. We'll become one of those couples that just greets eachother for a minute or two in passing, like roommates, and then before you know it, we'll be two old people that don't even know who we're living with anymore."

Giles let out a resigned sigh, grasping Anya lightly on the arm and speaking to her as patiently as the situation would allow, "I'm not going to fire you, Anya, it's not your responsibility to make sure that guests of ours aren't taking things from the shop. I believe what Xander is trying to ask is what, if any, magical properties or uses the ring might have."

"Between the streamers and cake I hadn't gotten around to researching it yet."

Giles removed his glasses again and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Do you have a guess? A vague approximation of what she might intend to do with it?"

"Well, no. But at least she didn't take the bracelet and the statuette from the collection. When used together in a ceremony, it summons a six armed orangoutang that grants wishes and eats babies."

"I feel so much better," Giles said sarcastically.

"We need to get it back," Buffy said resolutely, "Obviously, Charlie's not as innocent as we thought, and we have no idea what she could do with it. If she's fooled us this easily, then what's to say she isn't our soul-stealer? We need to find her, get the ring back, and then figure out once and for all what her deal is."

"Where do we think she went?" Willow asked aloud. All eyes turned to Spike. He resisted rolling his eyes at them. Blame Spike, talk about what a useless, bad vampire he is… oh, until you need him of course, then it's expected that he opens his mouth and tells you everything.

"I'll get the soddin' ring back. Know where she lives and gotta bone to pick with the lyin' minx anyway." Spike disappeared out the door before anyone could argue.

He caught her scent in the breeze, not going in the direction of his crypt or her apartment. Should've seen it coming. He sprinted down the street, hopped a few fences, and captured her in his sights in no time. She was walking with quick strides into the second dodgiest part of town, occasionally glancing warily behind her, but he trailed far enough behind that she couldn't see him in the darkness. He supposed he could have stopped her, demanded to know what the bloody hell she was doing, but it better served his purpose to just stalk behind her in a one-sided game of predator-prey.

She eventually turned down an alleyway in a section of town that him and Dru had once called home. Dilapidated factory buildings lined both sides like looming monoliths, and she stopped in front of the first one, pulling a key out of her bag and unlocking the door. She checked both directions before opening it and disappearing inside.

Spike crept to the door and tested the knob. She'd locked it behind her. Figured. There were some iron barred windows, but the glass was so dirty he couldn't see in properly. His skin began to prickle and he could sense some serious magic going on inside, confirmed by the tell-tale blue glowing light that began to manifest from the interior.

He'd had enough with the intrigue.

He smashed the door in with a heavy kick. The wood was no match for his steel-toed boots, and it splintered and swung open as easily as a saloon door.

"Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of a very bad girl," he thundered.

She was standing in front of a glowing portal, bathed in it's crackling blue light and poised to jump into the circular hole the energy had made. She looked truly terrified at the noise, relaxing infinitesimally when she saw it was Spike.

She held a finger out, warning him to keep back, "Spike, stay there. We'll talk later, I promise."

He took a step forward, "Little off your trolley if you think I'll buy that rubbish, pet. Not feelin' particularly trustful, can't imagine why." His muscles tensed, ready to lunge at her if she made any movement towards the glowing opening. "Take one step, and you'll be on your ass before your foot hits the bleedin' ground."

"I'm sorry, but you're not really leaving me with a lot of choices here, Spike," she said, then whispered "mittent" and a ball of energy flew out of her hand and landed in the center of Spike's chest, knocking him over. Charlie took the opportunity to take a running leap into the portal, energy flying and snapping around her as she vanished.

Spike leapt back up to his feet, putting a hand where the energy had hit him. No damage, no pain. A spell for a beginner, really, but just enough to get away. _But she's not going to bloody get away_ , he thought crossly, not when he was so close to catching her and the portal was still open.

So obviously he jumped in after her.


	10. Chapter 10- Slow Like Honey

A rushing noise, much like the sound of the decrepit washing machine in Xander's basement filled Spike's ears. And then it got bright, disturbingly bright for a vampire, and he braced for the intense burning sensation that usually came directly after.

Instead, he landed face down on a pile of something wet and smelling vaguely like the sickly decay inside a florist's shop, a scent he hadn't inhaled since he'd lived overseas. Sitting up, he discovered that he had tumbled, not into a London flower market, but into a section of undergrowth in a meadow, full of tall grass and oddly colored Fuana. At first he thought they might have travelled through some kind of wormhole to another time or part of the globe, but then he actually looked where he had fallen. The leaves on bushes, the flowers, the grass, _everything_ appeared to be oozing and undulating, colors dripping like melted ice cream onto the ground.

It didn't look normal, didn't feel normal, and the sun that was shining down on everything and not roasting him to extra-crispy oblivion proved that no, Toto, they weren't in the Sunnydale Dimension anymore.

Charlie had landed nearby, immediately scrambling to her feet and taking off towards a melting treeline a few hundred yards ahead, and Spike quickly righted himself. He tested the stability of the spongy ground, and finding it just solid enough for sure footing, began to chase after her. She was fast for a human, but she was no match for a vampire, especially one in as foul a mood as Spike.

He tackled her from behind and they both went tumbling to ground, the terrain sagging beneath them like silly putty.

"Was just back at the magic shop," he remarked, voice soaked in the dangerous calm of a hunter about to go in for the kill, "and low and behold, guess what was missin'?"

"Decent customer service?" she asked, muffled by a mouthful of semi-liquid dirt, as she struggled to roll over and glower at him.

"Try again. Think you have some explainin' to do, Missy," he growled into her ear, refusing to let her move.

"Spike, I don't have time for this!" she protested.

"Oh, you don't have time for a chat, aye? But takin' your time pretendin' to be… friends or what have you, stealin' evil knicknacks, and makin' bloody portals in the rubbish side of Sunny D… you have all the time in the world for that, do you?"

Spike gave her just enough leeway to turn over so she was glaring up at his face, her features set with petulance as she endeavored to catch her breath. "Exactly which part do you have a problem with? The portals? The _stealing_? Because color me confused, I seem to remember you helping yourself to whatever of mine you felt like taking."

"This isn't about me, s'about you. And side note, pet, piss poor job nickin' that ring. Took Nancy Drew and her girl scouts three minutes to figure it was gone and one to hash out who took it."

"Clearly I need some pointers from a qualified pickpocket. Care to help a girl out Spike?" Charlie gave him a caustic half-smile, which only further irritated him.

"Didn't want my help before, don't see why you'd need it now," he scoffed angrily.

"Wait, is that what you're salty about? You don't even care about the ring, this is about not letting you help me!"

"No!" he thundered, "Wanna bloody know what the hell is going on without hearin' a bunch of cryptic one liners and tales from dream land."

"You want an explanation, let me up, because I have to go," she demanded, wiggling underneath him in a way that turned his mind more towards fornication than fact finding. He forced himself to concentrate.

"Don't think I will."

Before Spike could stop her, she twisted her leg enough to knee him mercilessly in the groin and shove him off. He groaned in agony for a moment, but she only made it a short distance before he had her on the ground again.

"Get off of me, this fucking hurts," she snapped, pushing futilely against the arms that were pinning her shoulders to the ground.

"Lying bint, if I was hurtin' you, the chip would be hurtin' me."

"Your _chip_ probably doesn't work. BECAUSE IT'S A DIFFERENT DIMENSION, GENIUS!"

He instantly shifted into vampire-mode, "Think I wanna test that theory, Charlie Girl. Think I will." He lunged at her throat, stopping just a hairsbreadth from her jugular. "You played me, pet, you played me and strung me along, and it right pisses me off." He could feel his breath rush against her skin as he spoke, and it made him furious that he wanted to press his lips to her throat more than he wanted to tear it open.

"I wasn't stringing you along," she objected, looking him squarely in the eye. It became clear to him that she wasn't going to back down, but neither was he. He was getting to the bottom of whatever the mystery was, no matter what it cost him.

"Bollocks. Any more stringin' from you and I'd be a bloody necklace."

"You don't understand," she said. "My feelings are complicated, but I never lied to you aside from getting you out of the Magic Box."

He was close enough to feel her heartbeat begin to slow to a steady pace at her admission, and knew that she was being honest, though it still didn't clear much of anything up for him.

"Mind explainin' those complex feelings, luv? I'm a bit short on the mollycoddlin' at the mo'."

"I was protecting myself. I couldn't tell you everything without knowing I could trust you. And regardless, people around me have a way of getting themselves hurt or killed so it's just better if I'm alone."

"I'm touched you care for my wellbein', but in case it slipped your notice, been dead for a while," he said, with a touch of cynicism creeping into his voice.

She gave him an exasperated look that he couldn't quite decipher. "You could be more dead. In the permanent sort of way."

"And you don't want that?"

Her expression softened, "No, I don't."

"Do you trust me now?"

"Are you going to bite my throat out?"

She seemed fairly convinced that he wouldn't, so naturally he toyed with the idea for a moment, just a little taste, but settled for returning to his human form and quickly nipping her neck with his blunt teeth. She didn't even flinch. Wonderful. There was no way she was going to take his threatening seriously. Time for plan B, also known as Good Cop, also known as the only other option he could think of because he hadn't considered anything beyond plan A.

He released his grip, "Still soddin' mad as hell, and you better be tellin' me everythin'."

"Fine, but we do this my way. There's a thirty minute hike from here, and I don't have time to sit for tea and a story hour."

"Alright then, I'll take the bait and go for a stroll. But it's time to sing, little bird," he warned her, rolling off and standing up.

He offered her his hand as leverage, and she took it, grimacing as she rubbed the mud off of her clothing. She pulled her bag out of the muck and slung it back over her shoulder, nodding towards a pathway that led into drippy foliage. Spike grumbled when he looked down and saw that his duster was also splattered in colored ooze, but followed compliantly behind her.

"So, what's your first question, Letterman? I'm an open book," she said, stepping onto the trail, and pushing aside a wayward leafy branch. It left a green stain on her shirtsleeve, and Spike did his best to avoid touching it as he passed by.

"Basics first. Let's start with where the hell are we going?" he asked, peering warily into the woods. It certainly wasn't the stuff of vacation brochures or fairy tales.

"Home. Of a sort."

He gave her an incredulous look. Being in the undulating dimension for a grand total of five minutes was giving him flashbacks of the time he drank from a drug-addled flowerchild at Woodstock; it'd been fun for shits and giggles but once the novelty wore off he'd wanted free love to die as quickly possible. The constant movement was giving him a fucking headache. The real kind.

"Yeah, now you see why I like my apartment so much, right? The cabin's not even the worst place we've lived. We performed a stability spell on it so it feels kinda normal, but I prefer our non-oozy dimension."

"We? Don't suppose you've gotta twin sister… bit of tart, enjoys the occasional Ménage à Troi?"

"Sorry to ruin your sordid little fantasy, but no," Charlie snorted. "Just me and my mother in law, Carol."

Spike almost tripped over a root that had snaked its way over the pathway. "Buggering hell, Charlie, you're MARRIED?" he burst out.

"No Spike, not married. Widowed," she said, shushing him. "And keep it down, I don't think China heard you yet."

"Took me by surprise, is all. Knew you had someone you'd cared about, that bloke in the picture you had, just thought it'd all gone wrong and you left… didn't realize…"

"Yeah, I know," Charlie said, looking down at the mushy ground that rose over the sides of her boots with every step, "Probably should have told you but I just wasn't sure if I could… you know… do the trusting thing."

Spike was silent for a moment, still unsure of where all the revelations were leading. "Right then. So we're just makin' a social call on mumsy dearest?

Charlie let out a breath. "Maybe I should just start from the beginning…"

"All ears, luv."

"So here's the happy song you wanted: Nicholas Bleakgrave. You heard of him?"

Recognition twinkled faintly in Spike's mind, though he couldn't quite place where he'd heard the name before. "Sounds like a poncey git, but it does ring a bell."

"So southern France, the 1930's. He's this great magician, traveling around the country and performing at all the famous opera houses, in the private homes of the wealthy, even for royalty. He's amazing. No one can stop talking about him. He can do things that no one has ever seen done before- transport an entire audience to the Egyptian Pyramids with a wave of his hand, put the sun into a full eclipse for an entire month. He even turned all the people in a debtors prison into thoroughbreds and raced them for entertainment."

The name suddenly flew from the corners of Spike's mind, packed away in a section covered with dust and cobwebs. "Ah yes, the Bewildering Bleakgrave. Did hear of him, think I was eating my way through Finland at the time. So he's not a humanitarian, what of it?"

"The 'what of it part' is how he got the power to do all those things."

"Well I'd imagine he didn't work at the magic shop like a good little warlock 'til he got a promotion," Spike theorized, amused at the thought of the powerful magician toiling his way up the retail ladder.

"Have you ever seen someone take another person's soul?" Charlie asked, apparently not finding the humor in his quip.

A chill went up Spike's spine, "Seen a lot of things, can't say that's one of them."

"It takes days to have your soul ripped from your body. It's excruciating. It'll burn a hole through your chest, and when it's over you're not even dead yet. Just… a shell." She clenched her jaw, "Bleakgrave would rob people's souls to use as powerful binding agents for his spells. And then he'd leave their bodies hollow and burned, to die in agony. That's what he did to my great grandfather, and when my great grandmother found his body, she cursed Bleakgrave to a hell dimension."

She caught the fleeting look on Spike's face, "And no, before you start wigging out, _this_ isn't the hell dimension."

"Wasn't even thinkin' it," he muttered, though the look of relief on his face was evident. "Must've been a mighty powerful spell to send a bloody revelation like Bleakgrave to dimensional Alcatraz."

"It was. She was gifted. But the spell is… unstable. It relies heavily on one thing, my family bloodline. As long as our family line is strong through marriage and blood, everything's fine and the door to the hell dimension remains closed."

"Sure about that, pet? Those bunch of murders in Sunnydale that the Slayer and her groupies thought might be yours, all got for the two for one deal: gave up their souls before givin' up the ghost."

Charlie paled slightly, but shook her head. "That's awful, but I'm positive. I'm still here, and my mother-in-law, Carol, is still here, so Bleakgrave's still stuck." Her expression hardened, "Not that it stops him from hacking through my family tree, limb by limb."

The bitterness in her tone led Spike to one conclusion. "He got to that boy in the photo, your husband…"

"I just went for a run outside, so quick. Came back, and it was too late. Bleakgrave had sent assassins and Jesse died in my arms, whispering a spell with his last breath. Lost my husband, magically acquired some rune tattoos in the process. Both were unbearably painful, but I'd gladly be tattooed over and over than have to ever relive that day."

He reached over and tugged up her shirt sleeve as they walked, feeling as though he could finally look at them without needing to feign disinterest. "So what are they?" he asked.

"Ah, see that's the one question I still can't answer you."

"Wanna be done with the all bloody secrets, Charlie."

"I can't answer you because I don't know," she said, shrugging, "I think they're protection runes, but I didn't really feel like stepping in front of a train to see if I was right."

"And you never thought to look them up to see they did?"

"Initially I was busy being upset about my husband being dead. And it doesn't really matter, does it? I trust him," she said simply. "After that awful day, Carol and I went on the run. We stayed here for a while, but I don't want this. I'm so tired of the hiding and crawling into all the dark little places he can't find us, so I finally said _fuck it_ , and went back to the home dimension to look for a solution."

It was quiet except for the pitter-patter of dripping liquid and the squelching noise under their feet as they hiked along the pathway. Off in the distance Spike could see mountains, their surfaces as fluid as volcano lava, and as vile and strange as he found the dimension to be, he still marveled at the fact that the sun casting blinding strips of light between the trees wouldn't burn him.

Charlie caught his contemplative expression. "The laws of life and physics differ greatly from dimension to dimension," she said, holding her arm out and letting her hand drift in and out of the brightness. The heavy brass ring on her index finger glinted off the light and blinded Spike momentarily.

"So what's it do, then? We about to summon a horde of dragons to fly off to hell to eat this wanker for supper?"

"Sounds like fun, but no," she said, giving him a genuine smile that melted whatever part of his heart remained. "The ring does absolutely nothing."

"If all you wanted was a pretty piece of frippery, could've asked me. Know a bloke in Venice who- "

"-It's not just a piece of jewelry," she said, taking it off and handing it to him. "I've been tracking this thing for weeks, making phone calls, finally nailed it down as being donated to one Rupert Giles, shopkeeper. I didn't know anything other than the fact that he lived in Sunnydale. So you can imagine my surprise and disappointment that when I finally found it, I heard it was to be shipped off to another country, right under my nose."

"Still not seein' what the fuss is all about if it's as inert as a pile a' rocks."

"Do you see the "N" and the "B"? Nicholas Bleakgrave. That's his family crest on the sides. Carol thinks that if she has something of his, she might be able to strengthen the curse and keep him stuck in the hell dimension permanently."

"Quite the plan."

Spike and Charlie walked in companionable silence for a while, and Spike spent the majority of it just trying to digest all of the information he'd been given. Everything was finally adding up. Lost in thought, he kept walking when Charlie stopped in a clearing that looked out over a rolling valley.

"See that cabin in the distance?" she asked, once he'd realized he was walking alone and returned to where she'd stopped. She pointed to a building that looked as though it were made out of Lincoln Logs, "that's where we're going."

"Thank bloody hell it's not drippin' like the rest of this world," Spike groaned with relief.

"You really think a witch as powerful as my mother-in-law wouldn't be able to do a little stability spell? Compared to making the portal between here and Sunnydale, it's a walk in the park for her."

"Was wonderin' how that portal was made, since your deflectin' spell packed as much punch as a soggy noodle," he said, deliberately provoking her. Something had lifted, whether it was wariness or distrust, Spike wasn't sure, but having all the cards out on the table created a lightheartedness that he took pleasure in.

"Hey!" she said, mildly insulted, "I worked hard on learning that spell! Besides, I was only trying to deter you from going after me, not actually hurt you. Should've guessed it would only motivate you to keep up the pursuit."

They stepped cautiously down the narrow corridor leading to the cabin, and Spike was careful to keep his balance so he wouldn't have to touch the melting rocks that lined either side of the pathway.

Eventually reaching even ground, they made their way to the front of the cabin. A cheerful plume of smoke rose out of the stone chimney, and someone had been hard at work keeping the front porch cleared of mud. For a house in the middle of such a messy dimension, it looked adequately liveable. Even the front door was freshly painted in a summery yellow hue, and the hinges didn't even squeak when Charlie pushed it open.

He could see the back of a woman's head, sitting in an tatty plaid armchair. A fire was crackling inside an antique iron stove, and a saucepan of something that smelled like chilli steamed on top of it.

"Oh man, Carol, whatever you're cooking smells amazing!" Charlie grinned, glancing at Spike and prodding her finger into his chest, "And you keep your paws out of it, I don't care how much you like human food, Carol's the best freaking cook on this side of the-"

"Charlie?" Spike was standing very still, sensing things he didn't want to be sensing.

"What?"

"Turn around pet, stay there."

Her face instantly drained of color, and she ran towards the woman in the chair, dropping to her knees as she faced her mother-in-law. Or what was left of her, Spike thought, as he circled around to see the carnage he had already discerned.

A middle aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was slumped into the chair, wrists tied to the wooden arms, and a giant scorch-hole blackened where her chest used to be. But that wasn't what made Spike push off the urge to regurgitate everything he'd eaten in the past day. No, the worst part was that she was still alive, barely breathing but rasping out noises that by all accounts, shouldn't have been possible.

Charlie stared up at Carol from the floor, clutching at the woman's skirt, horror suffused over her features. "No, no no, no this can't… oh god… Spike…" her voice broke as she reached out to grasp Carol's hands, "we have to untie her, we have to…" Bright tears began to spill from her eyes, dripping onto her relative's skin. The woman didn't respond.

"Shouldn't see this Charlie, nothin' you can do now," he said gently.

"You don't understand! She's all I have left of him," she cried, "and she's been sitting here for DAYS, suffering, dying, I'm not going to leave her like this!"

A whiff of cumin and garlic tickled Spike's nostrils, and he glanced at the pot on the stove. If Charlie's mother-in-law had been incapacitated for as long as Charlie assumed, whatever had been cooking should have been pure charcoal by now.

"Days… fuck," Spike snarled as he descended his fangs, "Pet, we need to go NOW. Someone's been playin' chef, and it wasn't your mum-in-law."

"But I just love having company over for dinner! Entertaining is something of a passion of mine, and I really think you should stay a while." A man in a mustard yellow tracksuit and a striped purple apron appeared out of nowhere. "Besides, we have so much to talk about, Charlotte, especially seeing as my little monster trio didn't finish you off a few days ago. How fortunate." He stirred the chili pot with a wooden spoon.

He was very ordinary looking; medium complexion, medium build, with a crop of mud-brown hair. He looked like the kind of person that would be seen buying a coffee and a newspaper at convenience store and then forgotten about a few minutes later. It was his eyes, on the other hand, that left an impression if a person bothered to look closely. They were frozen, dead, devoid of any warm emotion.

Charlie pushed herself off her knees and stood to face him. She was pale and shaking, but her face turned to stone and she looked the man right in the face as she whispered, "Bleakgrave."

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for all the reviews/faves/follows, guys. I've had one of the toughest weeks of my life, and writing, though not exactly easy at the moment, has been weirdly cathartic. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. xoxo_


	11. Chapter 11- Loose Ends

Bleakgrave smiled a cold, disturbing smile at Charlie, and Spike wasn't sure he'd ever been so creeped out by a villain in his life. And technically being a villain himself, that said a lot. It might have been the bright clashing attire the man was wearing, or that the tosser was just downright frightening when he opened his mouth.

"Such a bright girl," Bleakgrave said, in a deep timbre made for the stage, "Though not quite bright enough. I'm guessing you didn't figure out that once I'd gotten your family line down to two, I could start taking some short business trips out of my cell. Took me a while to realize it too, but the last month or so has been _marvelous_."

Well, that pretty much explained everything that had happened in Sunnydale over the past few weeks.

"You bastard," Charlie snarled, and Spike watched her knuckles begin to turn white as she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands.

"Well, well, well! Someone's got pluck. Really don't like to hear filth like that coming from a lady though," Bleakgrave said condescendingly, pointing his wooden spoon at her. Though the blunted spoon realistically posed no danger, Spike saw the threat in the gesture and stepped in front of Charlie, bristling with animosity and defensiveness.

"Well I've got a couple for you, you ugly fuckin' mustard whack-toad. An' you're gonna wish-" Spike's mouth continued to move but he was no longer speaking. He clutched at his throat, trying to make any sound come out, and Bleakgrave calmly tilted his head to watch Spike like an insect under a magnifying glass.

"Vampire protecting a human, huh? Interesting. It might be fun to tear you apart and see if there's a soul inside. Not that I need another one right now. Regardless, I don't need commentary from the hecklers. I've always thought it was ru-" Bleakgrave's speech was cut off as his body seemed to disappear and reappear like a television signal. He materialized again seconds later, and patted his arms as if to make sure he was still solid.

Spike took the opportunity to lunge at him, but the magician flicked his hand and Spike flew against the cabin wall, as easily as a kid throwing one of those hand-on-a-string toys at a window. And just like the sticky toy, Spike was held firmly against the roughly cut logs, unable to break away. Bleakgrave's body flickered again, almost imperceptibly, and Spike could feel the invisible binding slip a little as he wildly strained against it.

Bleakgrave let out a frustrated sigh and turned back to Charlie. "Looks like we're going to have to make this a brief performance. Your family did this to me, Charlotte, and I'm rather sick of the hell dimension. Did you know that the only thing to wear are these tracksuits, and every day it's Spam. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. No liquid to wash it down. I've had dry mouth for over half a century."

"Sorry the dress code and the menu aren't up to par with the opera house. You deserve to rot in the lowest level of hell for the things you've done," she spat, giving the magician an enraged glare that Spike didn't think could possible be coming from the girl he knew.

"Now that's where I disagree," Bleakgrave said, stirring the chili again. He took a tiny bite, grimaced, and plucked a jar of cumin off a spice rack, shaking it generously over the tomatoes and beef in the pan. "People loved me. I was doing a service, entertaining them, delighting and terrifying them with what I could do. What kind of boring, mundane world has everyone been living in since I was so sanctimoniously locked in a cage? Power and magic doesn't come without a cost, and my cost just happens to be a couple of souls. Small price for so much art."

"How can you call it a cost?!" Charlie exclaimed, horrified, "It's murder, not currency, and it makes you a vicious monster! You're not an artist!"

"I don't expect someone as insignificant as you to be able to understand. It's my duty to keep performing, and the show must always go on, whatever it takes. And I have to be the best. Always the best."

Spike was itching to do some serious damage the man's smug face, see him try to be the best if he looked like roadkill. _As soon as I find a way to end my stint as a sodding vampire wall-mount_ , Spike thought as he glanced sympathetically at a deer head that was displayed on a plaque over the fireplace.

"You're the best, huh?" Charlie asked Bleakgrave in a very doubtful voice, "Then fix her. Put Carol's soul back in, let her live and prove that you're as powerful as you say you are."

The magician chuckled. "You don't really think I'm that stupid, do you? Go through all that effort, just to undo what I've done to satisfy my ego?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You can't do it."

Bleakgrave didn't respond right away, busying himself with stirring the pot clockwise. Though the magician didn't seem to show signs of being bothered, Spike could tell he getting upset by the increased effort he put into the gripping the spoon. Just as he began to feel hopeful that Charlie might have successfully baited Bleakgrave into reversing his latest atrocity, the man launched into another tirade.

"I suppose under a different set of circumstances, I could give you a real show. It's in my blood you know, this passion, these abilities I have. Passed down from multiple generations. There was an actor or two in the family as well, my mother's side. Fantastic monologues, from what I'd been told," Bleakgrave said, looking nostalgic. "But I digress. I should probably get to the point."

"You mean there's actually a point to your insane rambling, Bleakgrave?" Charlie scoffed, "Surprise me."

He smiled, "Sure thing, Charlotte."

A glowing blade appeared in his hand, and before Spike could process what was happening, it shot away from Bleakgrave with supernatural force, striking Charlie in the stomach.

Spike roared silently, thrashing at his unseen bonds, but to no avail.

"Get it? Point? Ah, well, comedy was never really my strong suit. See, it's not personal," he said, flickering slightly again, then suddenly breaking into a fit of laughter, "Who am I kidding? It's totally personal! Your own stupid great-great-great-whoever signed your death warrant when she made your bloodline the lynchpin for the spell. What did she think was going to happen? That I wasn't going to figure out how to break it? I'm the Bewildering Bleakgrave, I can do anything, and there's no force that can hold me forever."

He tapped the spoon against the side of the pan, and wiped his hands on his apron."Now, you've got this whole slow-and-painful-death-by-gut-wound thing under control, right Charlotte? I'd stay but it feels like my time's up for the moment. Oh," he said, turning to give Spike a slow smile, "and enjoy the chili." Bleakgrave vanished from thin air.

Spike's invisible restraints lifted immediately, and he fell to the floor on his hands and knees, just as Charlie sat down heavily on the rug beneath her feet. She touched her shirt with confusion, and as she moved her fingers away, Spike could see they were coated with blood.

"Did he… oh. I think I'm… I think he…"

Spike rushed to her side. "Let me see, pet," he said, lifting her shirt so he could inspect the damage. The knife seemed to have disappeared along with Bleakgrave, but the wound was very much still present. Blood trickled all around the incision in oozy streams of carmine, pooling in his hands as he helped her lie down against him, her head resting in his lap.

He shed his coat and pulled off his thin t-shirt, pressing it tightly to her stomach and watching with near panic at how rapidly it became saturated. The air filled with a thick, coppery scent, and he tried to ignore the fact that his mouth was watering and his stomach was rumbling in hunger.

"It's bad, isn't it?" she asked, looking up at him.

He didn't know what to tell her. Knew he needed to keep her calm though, while he figured something out. "No, not so bad. A scratch is all. Just rest for a tic, luv."

He wracked his brain for some way to get her out, get her to a hospital. Or maybe he could get help to come here. Could he stitch her up himself? He looked around the room for anything that could be of use. It didn't look promising, and even if it had, a sewing kit would merely allow him to knit surface flesh back together, not delicate internal organs.

"Liar," she whispered, tears spilling out of the corners of her eyes, "I feel it now. Hurts."

"Thought those soddin' tattoos were supposed to do some measure of protectin' you, Charlie," he said unhappily.

"Guess not."

She cried out as he adjusted his position to grab a thick dishcloth hanging off the edge of a washbasin, swapping the heavier fabric out with his soaked shirt. "Just need to slow the bleedin', pet," he said, stroking her hair in an effort to pacify her. "How'd your mum-in-law get in touch with you anyhow?"

"Phone."

He saw the antique rotary phone sitting on an end table, and wondered how he'd missed it. Compared to the provincial decor of the rest of the cabin, it was practically futuristic looking.

"Right then, interdimensional phone call it is," he said, carefully wadding his leather coat up under Charlie's head and getting up to dial the number to the Magic Box.

It barely rang once before Anya picked up. "Magic Box," she said cheerfully.

"It's me. Need to talk to the Slayer. Or Red, got a situation," he said, trying to keep his voice calm so as not to upset Charlie.

Anya's tone changed to one of annoyance, and he could hear her rifling through things as she spoke. "Well they're not here, so you get to talk to me."

Spike released a torrent of expletives under his breath, "Where'd they get off to?

"Charlie's apartment, obviously. I'm supposed to stay here and wait for you to show up, they said be back if they didn't find her, blah de blah. Didn't even ask if I wanted to go with them."

"Bloody hell," Spike growled. He picked up the entire phone and realized that it wasn't even attached to a line, so he walked to the other end of the cabin carrying the whole thing. "They need to call the second they're they're back. Went through a portal at the factories and Charlie's cut up somethin' bad, need some of Red's mojo or a med kit and need it now."

"I knew it! I knew she was going to open a portal!" Anya declared victoriously, before switching back to her usual tonality. "And fine, I'll tell them to call. But honestly, I don't see why I should be helping her because she stole merchandise, and I could have gotten fired! I'm really offended that she didn't even consider what could have happened to me."

"Just fucking do it, Anya!" Spike yelled into the phone, rattling off the phone's number that was taped to its front. The digits to Charlie's apartment were the only other numbers listed on the post-it, and he let the phone ring for a few minutes before giving up. He dropped the handset back onto the phone cradle and left it on the floor, running his hands through his hair in an effort to calm himself down.

Charlie was looking at him worriedly from across the room, and he gave her a smile that he didn't remotely feel. "Don't fret, luv. Jus' gonna wait it out, they'll ring and come fix you up, and you'll be right as rain."

He settled back down with her for a while, still quietly stroking her hair and mentally willing the phone to ring. The dishcloth became fully saturated, but he kept pressing it to her stomach, noting with growing dismay that her lips were turning blue.

"Tell me a story?" she asked, after what had felt like a decade. Couldn't have been more than a quarter of an hour.

"What kinda story?"

"Don't care…"

"Right then." He racked his brain for a tale that didn't involve murder, blood, and carnage, and wasn't left with many options. "Well, once upona, there was a cute little girl and her brother, and their mum went out to get them somethin' to nosh on or what have you. So while mum's gone, this barmy cat and his mates come along and start doin' all sorts of tricks, breakin' mum's things and makin' a shambles out of the house. And there's this fish fellow in a bowl, real dull chap, who's tryin' to ruin the fun."

Charlie let out a noise that might have been a laugh, "Cat in the hat."

"Cat's in what hat?"

"The story," she took a deep breath, wincing, "Kid's book."

"Oh, didn' know that's what it was called. Jus' liked the cheeky cat who wrecked the place."

She gave him a fleeting smile, cut short when she began shaking, the tendons in her hands grinding as she clenched her fists, shallowly gasping and trying her hardest to endure what he knew was agonizing pain. He stared angrily at the phone. Even if the slayer called now, there'd be no way help would arrive in time.

"Charlie… don't know what to do," he said, at a complete loss, "Tell me, what can I do?"

"Please-" she whimpered, "Don't- don't let me- I don't want to… hurts so much."

Saving the life that she had now was already off the table. He knew that, just hadn't let himself think about it. But there was one option left, one way she could live. Sort of.

"Have to bite you, luv... won't let it hurt though."

Her eyes locked on his, and he felt as though he'd fallen head first into the depths of her gaze when she whispered, "Trust you."

The two little words filled him with a sense of unexplainable euphoria, as though he'd been searching for such words forever and had captured them at last. He leaned down, and she closed her eyes as he caressed her face with his fingertips, brushing her hair away from her neck. He hoped she was right about the chip not working, or else he was in for the worst headache of his unlife.

"Spike…" she breathed, laboring to speak, "thank you."

"Hang tight, luv, time to sleep," he cooed in her ear.

And then he sunk his fangs into the soft flesh of her neck and drank, without a twinge of pain radiating from his chip. He was a dying man in a desert getting his first sip of water, a monk scorched alive and submerged in a bath of healing salve. He drank until her heart stopped beating, then he tore at his wrist and let his own blood drip past her lips.

Her taste was so ambrosial that even after he had done all he needed to do, he found himself craving her, and again passed his tongue over the two small punctures he'd made. A memory tore into him like deja vu, and visions of campfires, radiant colors, bloodied throats, and burning wagon wheels filled his head. Thoughts and sounds and screams came rushing back and it was then that he realized he had tasted her before.

Not her exactly, but he tasted it in her blood. A hundred years ago he'd reveled in the flavor, wiping out almost an entire tribe of gypsy folk with Dru and Darla, for cursing Angelus with a soul when he had taken their most beloved daughter. There was no doubt in his mind who Charlie's family was, and it shook him to his very core.

Kalderash.

She was a Kalderash.


	12. Chapter 12- Come As You Are

Spike sat for a long time on the floor of the cabin, wondering what to do next. It was foolish, really. Back in human form, he was warm and full, horrified and angry, and there was nothing he _could_ do except take Charlie home. Still, he watched the light from the sun lazily shift from one end of the room to the other before he finally pulled himself together.

He broke Carol's neck before he left, a quick twist, as fast and as painless a death as he could offer her. It wasn't much, but it was better than letting her suffer to the very end. It didn't seem right to leave her body in the cabin, and an epiphany struck him as he was almost out the door. He pulled out his lighter and set the rug and curtains on fire, before sliding his arms underneath Charlie and going outside to watch the house light up like funeral pyre. In many senses, it was. He stayed until blackened roof caved in before turning in the direction they'd arrived.

Carrying Charlie back up the long path to the portal wasn't physically difficult, but he hated every second of it. She was too light, drained of blood. Too cold. He tried to make it better by talking to her, carrying on a one sided conversation that would make anyone listening think he'd gone completely daft, but he didn't care. It made the trek just a touch more bearable, pretending that she was still alive, conscious and listening to his stories.

He told her anecdotes about growing up London, how his father had died when he was still a boy, how his mother had been everything to him. That his boyhood crush had turned him down at a party, and how one of his peers had publicly insulted and humiliated him, thus throwing him into the open arms of Drusilla, who'd been more than happy to ease his suffering with a pain far better.

When the flickering blue lights of the portal came into view, he let out a sigh of relief, hurrying his step in case it decided to ironically shut itself when they were just a stone's throw away. He hadn't even assumed that the portal would still be there, let alone be open. Jumping through and landing easily on his feet in the warehouse, he was relatively glad that the damned thing was less turbulent during exits. Sodding portals. He waited for it to close, thinking it should vacuum into itself, or vanish into emptiness and static sound, but nothing happened. The burnt out stubs of the candles that had been lit to open it still remained the floor, but even in their unlit state, the portal persisted in staying open. No matter. If giant drippy beasts or other nasties came traipsing through it, it'd be on the slayer's conscience to take care of it.

It was still dark outside, which surprised Spike, since he'd assumed it would be sun-up by the time they'd return. Must've just felt longer due to horrible, torturous circumstances, but it was a silver lining. He would've had to wait hours until darkness otherwise, or be dodging sunbeams whilst covered in blood and carrying a body. He buttoned up his duster to hide his blood-smeared torso, and hoped it was dark enough outside that the deep red stains in Charlie's clothing wouldn't be apparent.

Taking all the back alleys and empty side streets he could find, he made it back to his crypt with only one minor incident. A group of men walking on the street by the cemetery began eyeing Spike apprehensively as he approached, so Spike began to talk to Charlie again, tenderly reprimanding her for overindulging in wine on their date. The bluff seemed to work, and one of them gave him friendly nod before passing by.

Spike couldn't remember a time he'd been so glad to be back in his abode, and he leaned against the cold crypt door to bask in the comfort of having accomplished what he'd set out to do. He laid Charlie out on top of his sarcophagus, and stroked her cheek that was so devoid of of its usual rosy color. He knew she wouldn't be the same. She'd be wild, brutal, a killer, just like all vampires were. But, he reminded himself, he was doing what she'd asked. She didn't want to die, she'd be faster, stronger, she probably wouldn't even care about her haunted past. She might care about seeking revenge on Bleakgrave though, a thought which both worried and gratified him.

Three days. Assuming that the time dimensions hadn't messed up the count, he had three days until she awoke. And he was going to make it better than his awakening, better than the vampires he'd made in the past and dumped into unmarked graves and left. She wasn't going to crawl through the dirt, covered in the blood-stiffened clothes she'd died in. And she wasn't going to come back wrong like his mother had.

He shrugged off his duster and dug through a few boxes in the lower living quarters, eventually finding a frothy cream nightdress that he'd forgotten to throw in the box that he'd shoved into Harmony's arms when he'd kicked her out. It made his skin crawl to think about putting something belonging to his ex-girlfriend on Charlie, but he'd never seen Harmony wear it and he was down to one spare shirt of his own, which he'd certainly be needing. Grabbing the nightgown, his med kit, and a bucket of soapy water, he made his way topside.

There was no saving her clothing, but he doubted she'd want them even if he could. He sliced them open with a pair of scissors, layer by layer, tossing them to the floor until she was left in her underwear. Even they were saturated with blood so he cut them off too, leaving her covered in nothing but the light blue tattoos that lyrically swept from her ankles to her wrists. He examined her, memorized her, not lewdly, but the way an artist would savor form and curves, the contrast of crimson on pale skin and dark hair.

"Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty," he whispered aloud, letting the poncey poet come out for a moment before stuffing him back down again. So much beauty and so much violence. The crimson needed to go.

Dipping a rag into the bucket, he ran the wet cloth over her skin, scrubbing away the evidence of all the harm that had been done to her by Bleakgrave. Up lean arms, over small breasts, down her ribs, legs, over the raw stomach wound and the two little punctures in her neck that she'd always have evidence of, even after her new vampire blood knitted the skin back together. It wasn't at all unusual for a vampire and their sire to have relationship, romantic (for him, anyway) or purely sexual, and he hoped it wouldn't be the last time he'd touch her so intimately.

Dip into the bucket, wring out the rag, repeat. The water looked almost black by the time she was clean and he'd slipped the dress over her head and tugged it down. He threw a few tattered blankets in the bottom of the sarcophagus, and laid her on top of them, clasping her hands loosely on her chest. Pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, he slid the lid of the tomb closed.

He threw the soiled water into the bushes outside, and put the bloodied scraps of clothing and rags into the bucket to burn once they'd dried, leaving it by the door. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey, he sat in his chair and took a long sip, sputtering at the sound of his door being thrown open.

Buffy.

And the Watcher.

And the entire damned gang of Scoobies behind them.

"Spike! What the hell-" Buffy's mouth hung open when she got a good look at him, shirtless and blood-covered. "-what the hell happened?" she finished temperately.

Everyone visibly paled as they caught sight of Spike, Giles and Xander in particular looking as though they need a moment over a commode.

"A fuckin' murderous pig-son of a goat-whore's what happened. Got bloody ambushed in a spongy mess of a dimension," Spike bit out, jaw clenched with a fresh wave of fury.

"Yeah, we know, it was the drippy world!" Anya said, "Maybe you can clear up the disagreement between Xander and I. Would you call it more of an earth gone runny, or a Salivador Dali nightmare?"

Spike ignored her. "Where the fuck were you, Slayer? Might've saved her, if you'd been quick about it."

"She's not here with y- oh my god." Buffy clasped her hand over her mouth, "She died?"

It suddenly occurred to Spike that he was about to have a problem. If he told Buffy that he'd bit Charlie and drained her, regardless of the reason behind it, he had a fifty-fifty shot at getting staked, odds that he didn't much like. Charlie, on the other hand, would absolutely be staked. Without a chip in her head to prevent her from harming humans, she'd be susceptible to Buffy's no-tolerance policy on the vampire population. Buffy'd be waiting, stake in hand for Charlie to wake up.

"Yeah. Bleakgrave, that's Big Bad's name, put a soddin' knife through her gut. Poor chit was forced off this mortal coil once that bastard skipped off." Technically, not a lie.

"But you didn't tell me she was going to die! I didn't want her to die!" Anya exclaimed, suddenly very agitated, "You just said she needed medical attention. Can't we go give that to her now? Make her be alive again?"

"Doesn't work like that, Ahn," Xander said softly, putting his arm around his girlfriend.

"No, I don't like that. I want it to be different," Anya demanded, an abnormal undercurrent of sadness in her voice.

"You left without... I mean, you left her? There?" Willow asked, shakily coming forward to stand near Buffy.

Shit. Well, lies worked too. "Wasn't gonna do her any good, coming back with me, was it?" he said crossly, then fished for a change of subject. "That Bleakgrave wanker's the soul-stealer, by the way. Did it seventy years ago, began again a couple weeks ago when he started bendin' the cage bars he was stuck behind. He's about to have a real fun time 'round these parts if he's flyin' free as a bird."

"Oh god. If he did all that stuff while he was still imprisoned, how bad is going to be if he's free? Do you think he'll target Sunnydale? How do we protect ourselves against someone who can do that?" Willow looked anxiously at her friends who were looking just as anxiously back at her. "Am I panicking out loud?"

"I don't understand," Buffy said quietly, "How was Charlie caught up in this?"

"Turns out, Charlie and her mum-in-law were the only thing standin' between him and freedom. Damned ring might've stopped him had she been quick about takin' it. Might've been alright." Spike took another long sip of whiskey, glaring sourly at the people crowding his crypt.

"Spike, we called and you didn't pick up, Anya even left the store to get us right away. We finally just went to the warehouse and found the portal," Buffy recounted. "We went into the dimension and followed the massive amounts of smoke coming from the valley, but there was nothing left but a foundation and a bunch of charred logs when we got there."

"Not bloody possible," he muttered, "was there for hours." There was no way they could be telling the truth. He hadn't encountered them at the cabin, on the pathway, in the warehouse, or on the walk home. Though, granted, the trajectory he'd taken back to his crypt had been less than direct.

"We're not lying," Willow said. "Despite the whole ring thing at the store, I really liked Charlie, and I swear, Spike, I didn't want anything to happen her." The witch looked so sincere that Spike could almost believe her, if it hadn't been for the excessive amount of time they waited to come help.

"Dimensional time," Giles suddenly burst out.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"It's- see, not every dimension's time runs parallel to this one, accounting for spatial inequalities in the quantities of time passed."

"Giles. Small words," Buffy said sharply, rubbing her temples as though her head was hurting.

"He means that time goes faster or slower in different dimensions. In this case, much more time would have passed in the drippy world than in ours," said Anya, apparently the only one with capability or desire to translate, "By the time we got to where the portal was, Spike had already gone in and come back. And we were only in there for a short amount of our time, even though it took a few hours to look around the drippy dimension."

It was uncomfortably silent for a moment, and all Spike wanted was for them to leave. "Look, Bleakgrave's your guy, and me and Jack here," he waved his bottle, "have some business to attend, so if you don't mind, please sod off."

"So what, you're just going to sit around and do nothing while the unhinged magician that killed Charlie goes on a rampage?" Willow said, her voice infused with anger. Spike arched an eyebrow at the girl's bravado. Charlie's death apparently had enough of an effect on the witch that she'd grown a bit of backbone.

"No," Spike said bitterly. "I'm gonna very actively wait 'til the ugly stuffed wanker goes away. Or until the slayer does him in. Can't do a bloody thing about it, can I, since he's human? Piss off, Monster Squad."

"Yeah, okay, we'll leave you alone," Buffy said, giving him a gentle look that he was certain he'd never seen from her before. What was that? Pity? Empathy? He wasn't sure he liked it. "But you _can_ come by the shop tomorrow so we can go over the details of what happened so we actually have a fighting chance to do him in. And Spike… I'm sorry. I know you were fond of her."

Everyone turned to leave. Giles trailed at the back, glancing strangely at the bucket of bloody rags and strips of soiled jean material.

"Spike?" he said, turning back, "What- no, nevermind."

"My clothes," Spike said quickly, inwardly cringing at how speedily he answered.

"What?"

"In the bucket. Clothes got bloodied and torn up. Gonna burn em."

"Right. Yes, of course," he murmured, frowning in thought and shutting the door behind him.

Spike finished the entire bottle of Whiskey and was started on a second before any of them had even made it out of the cemetery.

* * *

Three days passed. Three and a half, if dimensional time counted, and Spike spent all of it in his chair at his crypt, with the exception of the cross-examination at the Magic Box. It'd been quiet in Sunnydale, but Buffy was preparing for the worst, so he obediently reiterated every detail that Charlie had told him about Bleakgrave and her family, and gave a heavily edited version of the events that occurred at the cabin. He was glad that the research and preparations would keep them all occupied. Or at least keep them out his crypt until he decided what to do.

He assumed he could keep Charlie under control for a little while. The feeding frenzy in a new vampire always struck hard, but fledglings were never as strong as older vampires. If she was difficult to control, he wouldn't mind packing up and leaving Sunnydale behind anyway. Too many memories, too many ass-kickings. Might be kind of nice, traveling to somewhere new, if he had someone to share it with.

Would she even want to go with him if she found out his history with the Kalderash clan? He squashed that thought down into the recesses of his mind. She wouldn't care, she'd need to eat and would feel the bloodlust the same as he had. She'd understand.

He tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. Three and a half days. She should have woken by now. Vamping someone wasn't an exact science, but it had never taken so long in the couple of times he'd been curious enough to wait and see how it happened. He stood up. Sat down again. Growled and stood, and made his way over to the sarcophagus, placing an ear on the stone slab. Movement. He could hear the faintest rustling coming from inside.

His mind eased, and he shouldered the slab forward, opening the tomb just enough so she could get out, but not enough that she'd feel exposed and unprotected. He peered down at her face. She was still in human form, and he watched as her eyelids blinked open, squinting at the intrusion of the warm glow of candles that were lit all over the crypt. Her pupils focused on his face and she stared up at him, lips parted but unspeaking, unsure and wary of what was occurring.

She looked very much the same. Her skin seemed more translucent, her freckles harder to see, and her eyes shone a shade or two brighter than they had before, but she was unmistakably the pretty, smart-alecky girl he'd placed inside three days previously. His hand searched out her face and he wondered why he was shaking.

"Kept my promise, pet. Wouldn't let you die. Not then, not ever," he said soothingly. "Come on out, see the world anew."

She blinked at him, fear swirling in the depths of her pupils.

"Don't fret, luv," he said, stroking her temple and extending his other hand to help her vacate the tomb, "time to live again."

She didn't take his hand, but grasped the edge of the sarcophagus and pulled herself up to stand in it. It was subtle at first, but Spike took one good look at her and knew something had gone very wrong. It was less subtle when she opened her mouth and started screaming incoherently.

He stared at her, petrified and slack jawed, and the only thing he could do was run a hand through his hair and whisper, "Bloody hell, what have I done?"

* * *

 _A/N: Heya guys! Thanks for all the kind reviews on the last chapter, it's been a bright spot for me this past week. One of my closest family members passed away two weeks ago and I've found it difficult to do much of anything that's not autopilot. Writing does seem to help though, a bit of escapism. The hardest thing is this world is to live in it, no?_

 _In regards to the couple of guests who were wondering if I had an actress or model in mind for Charlie, not exactly. No specific names, anyway, but there is one picture that I saved, which if you're interested, can be found here: (just put the three lines together)_

 _tinyurl._

 _com_

 _/zkfxs4w_


	13. Chapter 13- Right On Time

The tattoos. They were… sort of brighter? More like they were alive. Glowing gold, they shifted and quivered on her skin, flickering like lantern light. Charlie had taken one look at them and completely lost all of her senses. She'd tried to bite him, for one. Hadn't even gone all demony, just went right after his neck. He'd managed to pry her off and calm her down enough to stop the screaming and the attacks, but then she huddled herself into the corner of his crypt, clutching at her arms and talking nonsense.

He knelt down next to her. "Charlie?" he said for what felt like the hundredth time, and he was rapidly losing patience. "Need you to talk to me, pet. Preferably not in lunatic."

"Burns. Burns. Get it now, the things he did, put a flower in my hair and tell me lies. Thought it'd be better but it was a funny play instead and I didn't watch," she whispered, turning to look at Spike in what seemed to be a moment of clarity, "Do you think he sees now?"

"Do I think _who_ sees what now? Don't know who you're referrin' to, Charlie." He wanted to reach out and smooth her hair which had become all knotted and tangled, but he didn't want to startle her or acquire puncture wounds in the process.

She locked her arms around her knees and began to rock back and forth, hissing at the bright movement on her flesh. "Widow, the ghost, lover, he's singing on my skin and it burns, burns. Need silence. Can't bear this."

"You and me both," he muttered, shutting his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face.

Violence, he could deal with. Anger, cruelty, even Drusilla's special brand of crazy he could handle. Hell, he done it for over a hundred and twenty years. But this? What the fuck was this? He was in deep over his head, and he could tell whatever was happening wasn't just affecting her mind, it was hurting her.

His first attempt to fix things was an exercise in futility. A full stomach always seemed to cure any manner of his ailments, so he slid a cup of blood over to her, taking care not to put himself in an attackable position. She seemed interested at first, warily crawling forward to sniff it, but then she hissed like a wildcat and knocked it over with her foot before scrambling back to her corner.

"Right. Not fresh enough? Bloody waste, that was. Do us a favor pet, and give a warnin' the next time you feel like throwin' a wobbler so I don't have to lick my supper off the floor," he complained.

She looked back at him vacantly. A half-starved and completely insane fledgling vampire was absolutely not what he was expecting or what he'd signed on for. He knew she needed more help than he could provide.

With a substantial amount of effort, he managed to corral her down to the space below the crypt, and he pulled the ladder out and slid the cover of the sarcophagus on top of the opening. Since she hadn't fed, she wouldn't be strong enough to climb and lift it to escape. He sincerely hoped not, anyway. After a quick stop at the butcher's to replenish his blood supply, he set out for the UC Sunnydale campus.

It took him longer than he liked to find the witch. He could smell her, all herbs and that hot, sulfuric magic scent. He tracked it to her dorm room, then to Tara's dorm room, then the library, before finally catching sight of her red hair as she retired from her evening classes down one of the many blacktopped pathways.

"Need your help, Red," he said, moving into step beside her.

She jumped, letting loose a defensive burst of energy from her hand, which shot by his ear and hit a tree behind him. He watched in fascinated horror as the gnarled tree shrunk down to the size of a toadstool.

"Oh, Spike!" she said, clutching at her chest, "You shouldn't sneak up on people! Especially witchy people. Do you know how many students and faculty have gotten attacked by things on this campus? I almost turned you into a hamster-vamp."

"Wasn't sneakin' up, was just walkin' around," he clarified. "Need your help, but need you to keep your trap shut about it. Can I show you somethin'?"

"Um. No."

"No? Why the bloody hell not?"

She stopped walking and turned to face him, "Spike, if you're asking me for help and saying I can't tell anyone about it, chances are that I don't want to know. And it would be… you know, not of the good for me to get involved. Plus, we've kinda got our hands full with the Bleakgrave thing right now. I'm supposed to be meeting Buffy as we speak."

He swore aloud and decided to take a chance as Willow started walking away. "Please," he said, wincing as the horrid word twisted out of his mouth, "S'about Charlie."

His plea seemed sincere enough that Willow stopped and turned again. "What's about Charlie?" she asked, a crease of confusion forming between her brows.

"I'll 'splain on the way, but she's at my crypt and she needs help."

Willow searched his eyes, trying to decypher his less than forthcoming statement. "She didn't die?"

"No, she did. Part of the problem."

"Oh," she said solemnly, "Oh. Wow, okay. Lead the way, I guess."

* * *

"Holy goddess," Willow whispered when she saw Charlie sitting on Spike's bed, nestled in the only set of sheets he owned. Make that, the only set of sheets he owned that were now torn to shreds. His books were strewn about the floor, his alcohol bottles were in pieces, and there were feathers stuck to absolutely everything. The carcass of what used to be his pillow hung sadly atop one of his knocked-over table lamps like the trampled flag of a defeated enemy.

"Were you losing the game of Jumanji before you went looking for me?" Willow asked, eyes growing wide as she surveyed the damage, "'Cause you're supposed to finish the game to make the mess disappear, not go find a witch to fix it."

"Didn't look like this when I left," was all Spike could say, surprised at the amount of destruction that could be done to his belongings in such a short period of time. If it had been someone else's stuff, it would have been bloody hilarious.

"Oh. Well, maybe she's getting worse?"

He'd admitted everything that had happened on the way over to the crypt, and so far, the witch's responses didn't exactly instill buckets of confidence into him. "She's been like this since she woke up, chatterin' on about nothin', hidin' behind things, makin' a bloody mess of my crypt."

As if Charlie knew she was being discussed, she began to shift around in her pile of tattered white cotton, repeating the words "burns, burn, burning," as though it were a mantra.

"Hey Charlie… how are ya feeling?" Willow asked gently. Charlie didn't respond to the query, running her hands along her arms and whimpering as she watched the bright symbols on her skin.

Willow took a step forward, riveted by the sight in front of her. "Her tattoos… they're glowing… and I think... it looks like they're moving…"

"I don't care if they're spelling out "buy some tires" like the bloody Goodyear blimp! Make it stop!" Spike growled.

"We need to figure out what the symbols are first. I need to copy them down. Get me something to write with, Spike." She took a few steps closer, "Charlie?"

The girl's teeth were chattering, though she couldn't have been cold. Vampires didn't feel much in the way of temperature, unless they were on the extreme ends of the spectrum. The crypt was quite comfortable, even by human standards. "Safe. Safe. Safe, not safe. Never safe. Just hurts, stay awake. Stings, burns, aches."

"Don't get too close, Red," he said, handing her a pen and a few sheets of blank paper from a journal that thankfully hadn't fallen victim to Charlie's insane rampage, "Tried to bite me, she did, wasn't even vamped out. And she hasn't fed yet."

Willow squatted down, examining the girl from a safe distance, "Spike- her eyes… her teeth… I think she's got her game face on, it's just… different."

He'd been so busy fighting Charlie off and trying to decipher her nonsense that he hadn't even noticed. Her irises suffered the only change to her eyes, black pupils now ringed in demonic green-yellow, brighter than they had been before but not so obvious that he'd noticed upon first inspection. Her incisors were the dead give away though, long and wickedly sharp, though easily concealed within a closed mouth. How had he missed that?

"Bloody hell," he muttered, "Why did this happen? HOW did this happen?"

"Well, that's what I'm going to try and find out."

"Crying, crawling," Charlie whispered, "Wants to get out. Let it out, keep it in."

"Yeah, well, figure something out right quick, cause she's makin' Dru look like the poster child for sanity," Spike snapped.

Willow shot him annoyed look, "I will, okay. But I need _some_ time. Especially if I'm doing this by myself." She jotted down a few more lines of symbols, then folded the papers and stuffed them into her bag. "I'll be back when I know something. But in the meantime, maybe you should try to feed her again. She looks… hungry."

* * *

Three cups of blood later, two of which had seeped into the floor, and one of which was currently dripping down one of the walls, and Spike was cursing the witch for making him feel as though he needed to keep trying to feed Charlie. At least it was all from the butcher, not the good stuff from the hospital blood bank. It was day-old cow's blood though. Such a waste.

Sitting on top of his bare mattress, he passed the remainder of the evening keeping watch over her, though it almost didn't seem necessary. The frenetic energy that she seemed to have had earlier was waning, and she didn't appear to have any desire to go anywhere. He understood. He felt as exhausted as she was starting to appear, perhaps more, since he hadn't really slept since she'd died. He was close to nodding off when he heard the door open upstairs, and Willow call out his name.

"I think I've got it!" she said excitedly, as she hopped down the ladder steps. "Those symbols, they're definitely protection runes. It's very complex actually, but I found bits and pieces in an ancient text. You said her husband was some kind of warlock and spelled them onto her?"

He raised an eyebrow, wondering in what direction her research had taken her."Yeah. She said it was after Bleakgrave's hired claws attacked."

Willow was nodding eagerly, "I think he was trying to protect her from Bleakgrave. Dying is bad, but what Bleakgrave did to people was far worse, right? The soul-reaving thing?"

Spike thought back to what he had seen of Charlie's mother-in-law. Yes, there were some things far worse than death itself.

Willow continued on, "So these runes, they're part of an old spell that protects the wearer from having their soul taken from their body. It acts like a kind of net, so it can't be removed. If Bleakgrave had tried to take her soul, he wouldn't have succeeded. Charlie's husband must have figured out or at least suspected that Bleakgrave was close to fracturing the spell."

"Are you sayin' what I think you're sayin, Red?" he said, scarcely believing it could be true.

"The spell prevented her soul from leaving when she turned. It's not exactly what the spell was intended for, but it means she still has a soul, Spike."

It took him a minute to let that one sink in. He wasn't really sure what to think of it, a vampire born with a soul. A soul was like a gall bladder in a human or the little toe on a foot… not necessary, not particularly useful, and sometimes did more harm than good. Especially in this case.

"Why is she like this then?" he asked, "Angel wasn't this looney-tunes, just ran off, boo-hooin' his way into the woods. Turned into Captain Broody-Pants once he'd finished waterin' all of Europe with his nancy boy tears, but he still makes bloody sense when he talks. Usually."

"I think it's trapped beneath the surface of her skin, so it's probably hurting her," she said, with a hesitant shrug of her shoulders. "Like she's in a kind of limbo state, not completely souled, not completely soulless and it's driving her to crazy town. We need to force it back in."

"So you'll do the hocus pocus, and she'll be all sorted out again? More Charlie, none of the loonies?"

"Hypothetically?" Willow answered. Her unsure tone of voice wasn't remotely comforting, but there didn't seem to be any other options.

"So do it," he commanded.

"It's not that simple. And you're not going to like what needs to be done…"

* * *

Spike kept a close eye on the Watcher, making sure that he kept himself between Charlie and the man in case it was a setup. He hated the idea of having Rupert in on the situation. Willow had said she needed him though, and Tara too, so he didn't have a choice in the matter.

Even so, it pissed him off that the Watcher was looking at Charlie as if she were an animal in a zoo, polishing his glasses and putting them back on, saying things under his breath like "fascinating" and "incredible, just incredible".

"Can we just get to the mumbo-jumbo already?" Spike demanded, annoyed as the man pushed his way past Spike's defensive lines and knelt down next to Charlie to get a better look.

"Spike, I understand your impatience," Giles said, in a tone that suggested anything but understanding, "but we need to make sure that we are in fact correct in our assumptions. And it seems that nothing quite like this has ever been documented before, so it would be ludicrous to not learn what we can before we fix it. Give us a moment."

Spike walked off in a huff and leaned against the rung of his ladder, hoping Gile's punctilious attitude would get him bitten. Would serve him right, putting knowledge above the wellbeing of others. The Watcher wrote a few things down in his notebook, even dared to reach out and inspect one of Charlie's arms. Spike waited for her to lash out at him, but she didn't. The girl needed to be fixed, and soon. With a detached soul and no fresh blood in her system, there was no telling what was happening to her.

Willow at least seemed to understand the need for haste, and she hustled herself and Tara back upstairs to begin setting up for the incantation they'd be doing. Spike could hear things shifting around above him, and he vaguely wondered what state his crypt would be in once he went back up. Couldn't possibly look worse than the downstairs. It grew quiet after a few minutes, and Willow called down to say that they were ready.

Giles looked displeased, but stuck his pen in his pocket and shut his notebook. "Alright. I suppose we should get the patient back upstairs."

She was dazed and tired enough that Spike and Giles were able to help pull her up the ladder without any painful consequences. They maneuvered her to the center of a large chalked star that Willow and Tara had drawn onto the floor, interspersed with candles, crystals, and a few chalked runes that Spike didn't recognize. Charlie didn't seem to want to lie down or lie still, but Giles gingerly pinned her shoulders down until she stopped putting up a fight.

Willow dipped her fingers into a short glass jar and anointed the center of Charlie's chest with a sweet-smelling oil.

"Spike, this spell we're doing… it's not guaranteed that it will work. It's an ancient Romanian spell that was used to fix detached wagon wheels and broken pottery… things like that. I tweaked it, but there's no telling if it will fix this or make it... you know…" Willow trailed off.

"Worse? Can't get much worse than this, Red," Spike declared. "Do the spell."

"Okay." She took a deep breath, sitting at Charlie's head and joining hands with Giles and Tara, creating a triangle with their connected arms. She cleared her throat, and spoke aloud. "Ce este pierdut, ne întoarcem. Face întreg din nou ceea ce a fost spart, Spiritele bune, numim pentru tine."

The candles flickered and the room became bathed in shadow. Outside, a bolt of lightning cracked in the distance, and Spike wondered if the spirits they were invoking had a propensity for creating ridiculously cliché side effects.

Willow continued, her voice stronger than before, "Pune suflet în locul de drept. Cuvintele noastre va vorbi sufletului, Mâinile tale vor ghida sufletul."

The tattoos on Charlie's body seemed to steady their movement, the light radiating from within them intensifying. A strong breeze filled the air inside the crypt, blowing out the candles and tossing around the pages of the open grimoire Willow had been reading from.

"Așa va fi!" Willow yelled over the wind, "Așa va fi!"

The light beneath Charlie's skin became even brighter, began pulsating violently, finally slamming together just beneath the oil on her chest. She arched her back and began moaning and scratching at her chest as if to scrape the glowing embers out. And then, just as suddenly as it had come together, the light faded and Charlie relaxed onto the floor, silent and unmoving. The wind dissipated.

Willow shared an apprehensive look with Giles and Tara, before checking on the outcome of their spell.

"Her tattoos… they're so pale now, I can barely see them," Tara whispered, peering down at Charlie's exposed limbs.

Spike stepped over to where Charlie was lying, kneeling down to reach a tentative hand out and touch her leg. Sure enough, the tattoos had faded to barely discernable shadows. Charlie's eyes flickered open, human and bewildered, first alighting on Spike, then searching out the other faces around her. Giles helped her to sit up.

"Where… what? I thought… did I fall asleep?" Charlie asked, her imploring gaze directed towards Spike. "No, I couldn't have." She rested her hand over her stomach as the memories seemed to come swarming back, "It was him. He was there and he… and he... the knife-"

"Weren't exactly sleepin' pet, but glad to see you back among the conscious," Spike professed, feeling all the tension and anxiety in his chest begin to melt away at the sound of her rational sentences.

She looked down towards her stomach in astonishment, and Spike wondered if she was expecting to find the same blood-drenched fabric that had stuck to her skin as she lay dying in the cabin.

"But it cut right through me. It doesn't even hurt! I thought…" Charlie let out an incredulous laugh, "God, I thought that was it for me… lights out, dead. How did you do it?"

"Well, if you want to be technical 'bout it, you still are," Spike said, thinking that she didn't quite have all her wits about her just yet.

"What do you mean, still are? I'm still what?"

Christ, didn't she remember asking him to turn her? Was it one of those PTSD things where she'd just blocked it all out? "I bit you, luv. You told me you didn't want to die, and I bit you."

Giles, Willow, and Tara were watching the conversation unfold with the unceasing, back-and-forth attention spectators would pay to a tennis match, though it didn't even register to Spike that they were still sitting there.

"I know I asked you to bite me, but I didn't say I didn't want to die. I never said that," she said, stunned. "I didn't want to hurt anymore. I didn't want to bleed out on the floor for hours, thinking of all the things I could've done better, done smarter. Maybe that makes me a coward, but there was so much pain and I just wanted it to be over with. What did you do to me?"

A sinking feeling twisted its way into Spike's gut. "Turned you," was all he could say.

"I'm… a vampire?"


	14. Chapter 14- Just For Now

It went completely silent in the room, and for once Spike didn't have a snide remark or a revealing observation pop into his head to fill the silence with. His mind raced back to those fateful last moments of Charlie's life, and he would have sworn on a stack of Iggy Pop records that she had requested vampirism. Or maybe it was just that he hadn't wanted her to die a permanent death, instead hearing only what he wanted to hear her say.

"I'm a vampire?" Charlie asked again, the question coming out more like an ice-cold statement than a query. She put a hand to her chest, waiting to feel the comforting beat of her heart for over a minute before her face hardened.

Spike couldn't meet her eyes, and was happy enough to let the Watcher answer the question. "I'm afraid it's not quite that simple," Giles said, "There were some complications arising from the tattoos, though it was beneficial in nature. You are, as far as we know, the first vampire to ever be turned with a soul still present in your body."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? About being dead?"

Giles at least had the decency to look contrite. "Well, no, not exactly. I can imagine you have some tumultuous emotions on the subject. But suffice to say, we will help you in any way we can."

Charlie's gaze locked solidly onto the floor, and she frowned in concentration at a crack in the concrete that ran the entire length of the crypt.

"Perhaps some space is what you need at the moment," said Giles, giving his female witch companions a nod towards the entrance to the crypt. "You can always come by the shop, Charlie. Though this is all rather unprecedented, we have a number of texts at our disposal, and I have connections with several people that would be interested in this situation. They might be able to shed some light on the subject, so I'll make some phone calls tonight."

Spike narrowed his eyes at the watcher. Though he hid it under layers of tact and polish, the man was downright giddy with anticipation over the idea that he'd be heading the foray into a shiny, new vampire discovery. Obviously being fired from the Watcher's Council had dealt a few blows to his self-confidence, but it was annoying that he was planning on voting himself head of the research party. If Rupes made any effort that didn't entirely benefit Charlie, Spike had every intention of prying the man's sticky librarian fingers off of her.

As if he could sense Spike's hostile thoughts, Giles glanced back at him while holding the crypt door open for Willow and Tara. "Spike, might I have a word?"

"Pompous."

"What?"

"Means a musty, puffed-up, self-important git," Spike explained. "Want another word?"

If looks could stake, Spike would be billowing dust.

"What I meant was, could I speak with you outside for a moment?" Giles clarified, irritatedly over-pronouncing his words, as though it would stop any more sarcastic verbal attacks.

"Whatever you want, Watcher," Spike said drolly, following him outside. He leaned against the crypt and lit up a cigarette to ease the sick feeling in his stomach as the watcher shut the door behind him. The witches sat nearby on a headstone, quietly talking and pretending not to eavesdrop.

Giles crossed his arms and gave Spike an almost fatherly look of disapproval. "It should go without saying that this is a most profound occurrence. And while I'd love nothing more than to whisk Charlie away to somewhere," he looked around the cemetery, "habitable, I admit that I'm out of my element. We need her right now, she's our only link to Bleakgrave, and I don't want her disappearing or running into trouble if she heads off by herself."

"I'll bloody well take care of her, Rupert."

"Yes, and that's just gone swimmingly so far, hasn't it?" Giles scoffed.

"Whatd'ya think I'd do, hand her a compass and a canteen of blood and wish her luck in her future endeavors?" Spike asked, outraged at the idea that Giles would need to tell him to keep an eye on the girl he'd taken such pains to save from everlasting death.

"Spike," Giles sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth, "I don't know what to think. You're deceptive and unpredictable but I do think you harbor protective feelings over her, which is why I want her staying here. If we need her, we need to be able to find her."

"So that's how it's gonna be, yeah? You ring the bell and we come a runnin'?"

"Yes, that's how it's going to be. And you're getting a good deal out of it. If this situation had turned out any differently, I think you'd like the outcome even less."

"Well, isn't just peachy to know where we stand?" Spike said, crushing his cigarette against the side of the crypt and going back inside before the man had a chance to say anything else to make his night worse. It wasn't the idea of Charlie staying with him that was the problem, since it had obviously already occurred to him. The idea that it was also what Giles wanted though? That chafed.

By the time he'd reentered, Charlie had moved out of the chalk outlines and was sitting in his armchair, running her fingers back and forth over the two small scars on her neck. She looked at him, distracted and shaken, but he couldn't read her thoughts.

"Carol?" she finally asked, a touch hopeful, but with enough of an edge that Spike could tell she was bracing for the answer that she already knew.

"Couldn't save her, couldn't turn her. Sorry, luv, she was too fargone."

Tears threatened to spill from her eyes and her nostrils flared as she pressed her fists into the padding of the armchair. "I'm going to kill Bleakgrave. I'm going to take everything from him and make him hurt in ways that nobody's ever hurt before."

Vengeance. He could work with that. "Lucky for you then that you're still kickin'."

"Lucky?" Charlie asked, seething with fury. "Yeah, I'm really lucky. Everyone I've ever loved is dead, and I'm what now? Immortal? Awesome, always wanted to spend forever alone and unhappy, drinking body fluids from microwave-safe coffee mugs and pretending that fluorescent overheads are a nice alternative to sunshine. You know, I really wanted a dog too, just to ease some of the loneliness, but that can't happen now either. Might get hungry, have myself a Fido snack, and then feel really torn up about it because I still have a soul, right?"

"Charlie-"

"No! You don't get to explain. You don't get to apologize. You don't get to pretend that this is all for the best or that it'll be okay. You get to leave me alone to make my peace with this, because my decisions are the _only_ thing that I have left."

He knew it was a fight he wasn't about to win by talking it out. At least not immediately. He also knew that the moody, miserable, solo vampire path only lead to more misery. Or a half-baked detective agency in LA, both of which were a bunch of bollocks. Letting her wallow wasn't going to help her situation.

"Fine, pet. You wanna have a pity party for one up here, suit yourself. I'll be downstairs if you feel like havin' a chat, but in the here-n-now, drink up," he said, placing the last cup of blood on the floor beside the chair. "Been too long since you woke to not have something in your system."

With that, he retreated downstairs, collapsing onto his bed with a poetry book and flipping through it for a few hours. Eventually he gave up when he realized he was reading the same two pages over and over, too busy straining to hear any noises coming from above. He tried to force himself to stop listening. She'd come down when she was ready.

Replacing his volume of sonnets with the new journal he'd started the other day, he then wrote several pages of lines regarding the fickle nature of immortality and the pig-headedness of every woman he'd ever known. Sighing, he scribbled out everything he wrote, drew a well rendered and expressive picture of Angelus being staked, then tore the pages out, crumpling them into a giant ball of paper and tossing it to the floor.

As he leaned back into his wooden headboard and shut his eyes, he heard the sound of what could faithfully be described as a fight between a trash compactor and concrete wall. He ached to get up and find out what was occurring, but he pushed himself to remain steadfast.

After a few more minutes had passed, Charlie's feet appeared on the topmost rung of the ladder, descending one at a time until she was standing before him.

She stared at him for what felt like a week before she actually spoke. "I might have smashed your mug and there might be blood all over your wall."

"Was wonderin' what all the racket was," he said, resting his hands on his stomach and giving her his full attention. She looked equal parts irritated and troubled, a capricious angel in a cheap lace-covered nightie.

"And your chair is broken."

He raised an eyebrow at her, "Par for the course, luv. Think I still have a lamp or two left if you just wanna finish off my entire crypt."

She looked around, finally noticing the disaster area that was his living quarters. "What the hell happened down here? Are you redecorating or something?"

"This," he said, indicating to the mess all around him, "was apparently the warm up for what you did upstairs."

" _I_ did this?"

"Yeah. Gonna be findin' feathers down here for the rest of my unlife, thanks be to you."

"Huh," Charlie said, inspecting the damage with far more interest than before. "Good for me."

"I bloody liked that chair," he said grouchily.

"I didn't mean to break it," she said defensively, scratching her wrist. "Well, maybe I did, but I didn't think that it actually _would_ break."

He hadn't forgotten how he felt after being turned, the first time he experienced the true power of vampire strength. For him it was freeing, no longer caring about the pointless decorum a gentleman was supposed to uphold in society and having all the raw power to go with his brand new attitude. Of course, he'd sucked two humans dry before he felt well enough to break anything in half, but that was besides the point. Actually, on second thought, that _was_ the point.

"Would be even stronger had you tucked into the blood, rather than paint my walls with it. Not that gore on the walls is outta place for vamp crypt, but the not-eatin' seems to be a reoccurrin' theme with you."

"It smelled disgusting," she said, grimacing in the same manner as when she was covered in glowing soul-runes. "I'm not touching it, let alone putting it in my mouth."

"You need it, pet. It's what'll keep you goin', and without it you'll be runnin' on empty in no time. If you want somethin' better, I'll swing by the hospital." There was a long pause. "Forgiven, am I? Since we seem to be on talkin' terms now?"

"No," she said, sitting at the edge of the bed, the nightdress riding up dangerously over her thighs. She didn't seem to notice, and Spike made every effort to look anywhere but her legs.

"I don't know, Maybe," she continued. "I'm really upset with you. I'm upset in general, but if I don't think about it, I won't cry all over your mattress. I know that you thought you were doing the right thing, what I wanted, and that counts for something. And besides, there's nothing we can do about it now, right?" She looked down at her attire. "Except you're going to go get me some clothes from my apartment because this is legitimately the ugliest shit I've ever worn."

A corner of his mouth tugged upwards at her snippy remark, proof that the girl he'd chased through the portal, though somewhat altered, was still very much present. "Didn't have time for a shop-till-you-drop, seein' as how you were already dropped," he remarked.

She pulled at the itchy lace trimming, "I can't believe Willow and Tara were even willing to put this on me."

He quickly nixed the idea of telling her that the witches had no hand in dressing her or selecting the garment. "Didn't have many options," he said offhandedly. "Anyways, think you could do with some air, luv. We'll go pack up your things and bring them here. Owe me some sheets, at the very least. Can even wear my coat if you wanna hide the lady-of-the-night attire."

"Whoa, hold up! I'm not moving in with you! What is this, _oh you're a vampire now, guess you need to live in the most predictable building you can think of_? My apartment's fine."

"Yeah, it's right perfect. Nice big windows in the hallways, southern exposure," he drawled sarcastically, splaying out his hands as though he were displaying the framework, "It'll be great on those days that you want to disintegrate into a neat little pile atop your welcome mat." He leaned forward, "What happens if you need to scamper off in hurry? You're trapped. No sewer tunnel access, no awnings, just sayonara Charlie."

"Can't imagine why I overlooked those things on the amenities list when I moved in," she muttered.

"Look," he said, sighing, "we'll find some other place for you, but until then, this is the only place equipped for the likes of us, 'less you fancy yourself in Xander's basement. Not to spoil the plotline, but the git's place smells like mothballs, and him and his girl have at it daily. Hard to sleep with all the gruntin' and shoutin'..."

"Alright, I get it!" she said, clapping a hand over her eyes as if to shut out the mental picture. "But this is going to be so temporary. I'm taking the first anti-sunshine apartment I find."

He tossed her his duster. "Your call, but when you change your mind 'cause you like my humble dwelling," he shot her a wolfish smile, "don't say I didn't tell you so."

* * *

"So what happened?" she asked, as they meandered through the Sunnydale Cemetery on the way to her apartment. "Between you doing the biting thing and me waking up on the floor in the middle of a Harry Potter novel, that is."

"You don't remember anythin' about wakin' up the first time? Chatted on about posies and theater, you did, all the while glowin' like a bunch of fairy lights."

"Sounds… weirdly entertaining. I don't remember."

He shook his head. "Wasn't entertainin', scared the shit out of me. Thought I'd made a bungle out of turnin' you, and had to get Red and the rest to fix you."

"So what was wrong with me? Did you forget to put coins on my eyes?" She tapped her chin in thought, "Oooh… I might have had garlic bread for lunch Friday afternoon."

"Wasn't either of us, really. Turns out, hubby's knack for decoratin' you with runes was a protection against havin' your soul plucked out."

She stopped walking, a sad smile playing on her face. "He was the best, you know, always looking out for me. Never should have married him. Look where it got him."

"Can't predict the future, can you? And even if he'd known, be willin' to bet all the tea in England he would've done it all over with you again."

"Right. Maybe," she said softly. "So I was all banana sandwiches and throwing your stuff off your shelves, and then what? How did you even…" she trailed off as a large figure clomped it's way across grass and astroturf, stopping a few yards in front of the pair.

A familiar and most unwelcome face lit up with a murderous smile. "Well look who we have here. It's Spike, and he brought a snack from the bar."

Bloody hell, of ALL the nights, Bartrax could've picked…

"What's the problem now, wanker? Got the keys to the cemetery now too, do you?" Spike snapped. He really didn't have the time or patience for another altercation with the dense brute.

Bartrax shuffled closer. "Heard you brought the Slayer to Willy's, Spike. You've broken the demon code one too many times, and we're all in agreement. It's time to put you down."

"All? Have you gone daft? There's only one of you, you big stupid-" Spike trailed off as two more demons stepped out of the shadows, razor sharp fingernails glinting in the moonlight and towering over Bartrax.

"Is there a convention in town I didn't know about? For ugly, mean looking demons that pass nine feet and have arm muscles the circumference of car tires?" Charlie grumbled under her breath.

"Not gonna get hurt this time, pet, my playground tussle, not yours. Go to Buffy's, Revello Drive, second house on the left," Spike murmured back, dropping his fangs and cracking his knuckles as the trio of demons advanced.

Charlie didn't budge.

"Now!" he yelled, as a fist descended into his face.

Of course it was the largest of the three that attacked him first, he should have expected as much. Spike shook off the pain radiating from his left cheekbone and threw an experimental punch at the colossal monstrosity. His fist connected solidly with the blighter's stomach, but the thing didn't even flinch. Spike's aching hand would have flinched if it could.

"You work out?" he asked, fairly impressed. The demon growled, picked him up, and threw him against a nearby tree. Spike maneuvered himself so that his shoulder absorbed most of the damage, and he landed on his feet with only minor injury to the rest of him.

"Wasn't a nice way to accept a compliment, now was it?" he scolded, deciding that if he couldn't win the physical fight, he'd at least out-humiliate his enemies. "Mum must have rolled your egg right down the sewer drain when she laid you, never taught you any sort of manners!"

The demon roared furiously, and charged at him. Spike narrowly avoided its headbutt, hissing as the demon's nails sliced into his arm as it rushed by. The forward momentum kept the demon propelling forward, and he took the opportunity to gain the advantage from behind.

He managed to land a blow to the demon's lower back, striking a row of spiny plates aligned with its vertebrae. It bellowed in agony, swung around, and slashed out with its claws at Spike, who easily dodged each wild, imprecise swipe.

"Got your callin' card now, don't I, you twit?" Spike laughed as he ducked another punch, and slipped behind the demon again to damage the rest of his plates.

"Next time," he said, breaking one in half, "don't work," he cleaved one off, "for a moron," he cracked the last one right down the middle, "with dog breath."

The demon dropped to the ground and stopped moving. "'Cept there isn't gonna be a next time, is there? Wanker. Who's next?" Spike asked, eyes alighting on Bartrax's stunned face. "Fancy a go, mate?"

Bartrax turned and ran. My, how quickly the tides were changing.

"That's right you bloody coward! Run as fast out of this town as your scaly legs can carry you!" Spike yelled after him, turning and readying himself for the body-shattering punches of the second enormous demon twin.

He stopped in his tracks, witnessing the most horrifying sight he had ever seen, except for that one time a church organ had toppled onto him. His newly sired vampire protege had leapt onto the back of the remaining demon, bitten into its neck, and was drinking from it as though it was an open bar at a wedding reception. Spike gaped at the sight, open mouthed and completely unable to look away. It didn't take long before Charlie finished off her prey, and the behemoth collapsed onto the ground, groaning in misery.

Green-gold eyes glowing in the darkness, she wiped a hand over her mouth, taking a step towards Spike. He took two steps backwards.

"What?" Charlie asked, "You kept telling me to drink up, so I did."

"Not from a bloody demon!" he screeched.

"He smelled… good. Kind of like tacos or something, he was about to go after you, and I was hungry. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Kill? Drink?"

"Not from a bloody demon!" he screeched again.

"Is there some demon code of honor that I'm supposed to follow now?" she asked calmly, "Because you killed the other one, so killing's obviously on the table. But _thou shalt not eat_? Is that etched into some stone tablets somewhere?"

"Isn't a commandment, 'cause instinct's what it is," he said, still unable to process what he'd seen, "You thought he smelled like a meal?"

"He doesn't smell that way to you?" she asked.

The scent of the fallen demon hung heavily in the air around him. "Smells like the undercarriage of an overweight leprous mule."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Agree to disagree, I guess. I feel better now."

It still wasn't registering. "And when you take a sniff at me, pet, are you thinkin' sexy man vamp or a three course at Le Spike Au Vin?"

She blushed pink, and Spike was torn between feeling glad since the flushing meant that she'd eaten enough, and being potentially worried by whatever her answer was. "You smell okay," she responded carefully.

"Okay?" he repeated, insulted. What kind of evasive, offensive answer was that? He'd rather smell like a cheeseburger than smell _okay_.

"Alright, you smell good, but it's not exactly foody, it's layers. It's how you smelled before, plus something else I can't quite describe," she admitted. "But that's not the point because I'm not going to bite you. I didn't bite you before, right? And I was really hungry then."

"Did go after my neck a few times before the witches put the whammy on you."

She made an exasperated sound. "How about from now on, anything I did before I got all souled up again, doesn't count? Actually, how about we both start off on a clean slate? Fresh start, no grudges, no more secrets."

Of course, his mind immediately flew to the thought of his past dealings with the Kalderash clan, but if it was written in a few history texts somewhere, it wasn't exactly a secret, was it? And if the books happened to become misplaced or destroyed, happy coincidence. "Yeah. Clean slate," he murmured as he watched her walk on ahead.


	15. Chapter 15- The Policy of Truth

"So… fact or fiction… I can turn into a bat and fly off into the night?" Charlie asked, after pausing a moment to let Spike catch up as they headed down the street to her apartment complex.

"Not unless your name is Dracs," he said amusedly, then reconsidered, "Though after watchin' you chug down half a Borthrall, could turn into a marmoset for all I know."

Even if things were a bit different with her, conceivably it would be a couple of days before she needed to feed again. He let his guard down, deciding it was safe enough to walk shoulder to shoulder. Just needed to make sure she fed often enough, he thought, wondering if she'd need to patrol with Buffy for regular meals. He was less than charmed by that prospect.

"And how come I'm not all bumpy?" she asked, noticing that he was still in game face. He shook himself out of it, blue irises replacing bright gold ones, and placed a hand under her chin to examine her features again. Eyes and teeth aside, not a single thing had changed.

"Noticed that, did you? Don't know," he admitted, letting his hand linger a moment.

"Guess it's a mystery for Giles then."

They continued onwards up the street, and Spike answered as many of her questions as he could. He filled her in on details about feeding, shifting, immortality, everything he could think of, anything she asked, though he wasn't sure how much use it would actually be to her.

When they eventually arrived at the apartment, they found that the door had been propped open with a brick while a tenant smoked out front, and the pair went inside and up the stairs to her unit.

"So much for needing my keys," she declared, examining the broken lock on her apartment door and pushing the door open. "Looks like my stuff is all still here though."

Spike shot a curious glance at the bent latch. Definitely Buffy's work. "Slayer's not the sort to look for a spare under the doormat 'fore kickin' a door in. Plannin' on gettin' a padlock for the crypt though, so she's gonna have to learn how to knock."

Charlie didn't seem to hear him. She was standing just inside the entrance, and gazing around the room as though she were trying to memorize what it looked like. Spike had seen happier typhoid victims.

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Gather your things, dovey. I'll grab a bite while you're packin'. Even fold up your unmentionables if you'd like," he said with a teasing smile.

"You know, I think they stop being unmentionables when you mention them all the time. You're gonna have to start calling them obsessedables," she shot back, giving him a grateful half-smile that said she knew he was trying to lighten the mood.

"Offer still stands," he said, leaning against the doorframe and scowling as a shot of pain raced up his arm.

"I'm sure it does, but _you_ won't be if you don't get some blood soon. You look like hell. I think there's still a pack in the fridge."

By the time he'd heated up his meal in a mug and joined her in the livingroom, she'd already changed into jeans and a slouchy grey tank top. Her arms were still bare, a strange sight due to the fact that he'd never seen her purposely dress in anything other than layers and layers of clothing, and he'd assumed she'd throw on a sweater at the first available opportunity.

"Didn't think you owned anythin' more scandalous than a long sleeved crew neck. My bad vamp influence rubbin' off already?" he asked, enjoying the generous amount of skin she was showing.

"Don't flatter yourself. I didn't have any tattoos two years ago, and I only kept them covered in public to avoid making myself an easy target if Bleakgrave found out about them. They're so light now I don't think anyone would really notice, and he thinks I'm dead anyway. And hey look! I _am_ dead! Therefore… tank top," she said, pulling a worn brown suitcase out from behind her sofa.

"So what's my job, then, if I don't get to fold up your knickers?" he asked, relaxing onto the couch, "Happy to go through the rest of your things if you want me to pick out an outfit or two."

"Spike picks out an outfit for me," she mused, "If it's not black boots, a black shirt, and black pants I'd be shocked."

"Saw a tight little blue number you'd look right fetchin' in. Like it even better in a fluffy shade of pink pastel, though you know that song and dance about beggars not bein' choosers."

"Wow. Just keep yourself entertained while I pack."

Spike broke into a wide grin. "What'd you have in mind, pet? Can think of a few ways to ke-" The TV remote flew across the room and landed in his lap. "Right then. Telly it is," he said deflatedly, flipping the television on to his favorite channel.

He kept half an eye on her as she began carefully folding her clothing, wrapping a few breakable items between some of the cushier fabrics, and placing everything inside the suitcase. After a while, she sat down and began leafing through some photo albums, pulling the tape off the majority of the pictures and placing them in with the rest of her things. Where the hell had _those_ been when he was nosing through her apartment?

When the credits of the show he was watching finally began to roll, he noticed the first rays of morning light starting to peek up over the horizon through her window. He stood up and stretched, noticing with chagrin that she wasn't anywhere near being ready to leave.

"Hurry it along with the packin', pet. Won't make it to the sewers if we don't duck out now," he said, eyes widening upon seeing the contents of her bag. "How many bloody pairs of socks are you bringin'? Unless you're plannin' on peddlin' them for cash, think you could ease off at fillin' half the suitcase."

She glanced down at her suitcase, and then looked dolefully around the room. "Could we just sleep here until it gets dark again? Just for today? No one knows we're here and I want a little more of my old life before I have to let it go. I liked it here."

Spike sighed and glanced out the window, assessing that it'd be a close call if they left right away anyway.

"We'd have enough time to take my TV if we waited until tonight…" she said sweetly, trying to bribe him.

"If you make room in your bags for some biscuits and the volumes of Shakespeare you've got on the bottom shelf there, yeah, we can wait," he relented.

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Spike, but I accept your terms," she said, grabbing the stack of poetry books and dumping them into her bag.

He drew the curtains closed and pulled her dresser up against the door in case of unwanted intruders. It'd at least buy them some time to react if someone tried to come barging through. Throwing an extra comforter on the floor, he lay on his back with his arms behind his head and tried to drift off without much success. He wasn't particularly tired, too revved up from the fight to sleep. He watched Charlie curl up on the couch, trying to get comfortable underneath her worn blanket, eyes open and staring listlessly up at the ceiling.

Eventually, she sensed him watching her and turned her head towards him. "It's too quiet," she said, as though it were an explanation.

"Usually need quiet when you're tryin' to kip off."

"I can't sleep though. It's too quiet, and I'm thinking too much, can't turn it off. Couldn't you have at least made me a normal vampire without feelings?"

"Oi! All vamps have bloody feelin's," he replied curtly, "Just 'cause they don't have souls doesn't mean they don't feel sadness, love, anger… the whole gamut."

She shrugged and rolled onto her side so she was facing him. "Maybe if they were all like you, I'd believe that, but the rest I've met seemed pretty intent on just eating me."

"And I bet they were right broken up about it when you got away. All depressed, very emotional."

She smiled but it didn't quite reach her ears. "Ha. Funny."

"Want me to bite you again?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows, "See if we can lose that pesky soul?"

She gave him another half-smile. "Would it help? I hate feeling this way."

"Thinkin' of your mum-in-law?" he said lightly, trying not to open the wound.

"It just feels like something's off, like my life was a puzzle that was almost put back together, but it's not anymore because there's a piece is missing, but it didn't drop on the floor or get stuck under a couch cushion, it's just gone, she's gone, and the puzzle will never be wh… never be…"

Charlie dashed the tears away from her cheeks and sat up on the couch. "I can't do this right now. Can we just talk? About something completely unrelated? Anything. I'll even talk politics if you want."

"Yeah, pet, can talk 'bout whatever you'd like."

"Can we play a game?"

He assumed she wasn't talking about the types of games he usually played when he was sleeping over with a woman, and felt the all too familiar kick of disappointment he'd been feeling lately. "What, got a box of Monopoly around somewhere that I didn't find?"

"No, I don't have any board games. A conversation game maybe? Especially since we've got this fresh start thing going on, and I actually don't know a whole lot about your life… or not-life. Have you ever played Two Truths and a Lie?"

"Can't say I have. But lemme take a wild stab at it… I say two things 'bout myself that happen to be truth, and one that's a bunch of bollocks, and you have to figure which one's the bluff?"

"Bingo. And the rule is that you have to be honest about which one's the lie. And since you're so smart, you can go first."

"What, no drinkin' involved?" he asked, dismayed by the wholesomeness of it. He hadn't been expecting a game of strip poker or naked Twister, but he'd snacked on kids at summer camp with a spicier repertoire.

"Alright," she said getting off the couch and padding into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with her hand clasped around the neck of a wine bottle. She twisted off the cap. "Now there's drinking involved. Rule number two, the guesser drinks for every question that they guess wrong, and the liar drinks every time they get busted. "

"Now you're talkin'," Spike grinned. "Right then," he said thoughtfully, as he propped himself up on his elbows, "Once spent a week in a box on a Nazi submarine, but I broke out and ate most of the crew. Toured with Sid Vicious for a coupla years in the 70's." He rubbed his hand on his chin, "Owned a signed copy of Bram Stoker's _Dracula_ once, coulda made a fortune off it, but instead watched it burn to a crisp in a fire."

"Well done!" Charlie said, looking mightily impressed by his statements, "But since Sid Vicious only played for like two years total I'm going to have to call bullshit on that one. If I didn't know my music history, you might have gotten me there. Nazi sub, huh? I want to hear that story sometime."

"Fine, pet. Let's see how well you can do," he said, taking a swig from the proffered bottle of wine, and nearly choking at the taste. "Bloody hell, is this soda pop? All sugar, it is, with the alcohol content of a juice box."

"Shut up. It was pink and bubbly and I was saving it for a special occasion. Be grateful I'm sharing," she retorted.

"First and only sip I'm takin'. You're gonna finish this bottle when I call out each porky you tell."

"I'd like to see you try," she scoffed.

"Start talkin' then."

"Alright. When I was a kid, I wanted to start my own brand of cleaning products and sell them on infomercials... I once owned an evil dwarf hamster named Mr. Waffles that met an ironically sad end inside a toaster oven. And I once tied my friend's shoelaces together while he was sleeping and then he fell and broke his thumb when he woke up and tried to walk."

"Can see you sellin' knock-off Ajax in pigtails and knee-highs. Bloody adorable," he said, smiling at the mental picture. "And you're just devious enough to tie some hapless bloke's laces together, so I'll be watchin' my boots from here on out, Charlie Girl. My vote's that you never owned the critter. "

"Ha! Fooled!" She laughed, throwing her arms up victoriously, "Finger-biter Mr. Waffles also had a taste for adventure and bagel crumbs. A bad combination, rest his poor soul."

"So which one's the fib?" he asked, surprised he'd gotten it wrong.

She shut her eyes and dramatically put a hand where her heartbeat used to be. "Alas, my dear friend Matty fell and broke his wrist."

"A half lie! That's cheating!" Spike exclaimed.

"The most believable lies always have a bit of truth in them, don't they? Drink up, Spikey."

"Should've known not to trust you to play fair, pet," he said, taking another sip and glaring menacingly at the sickly sweet bubbles through the glass. "Alright then, guess this one: I have exactly one pair of Doc Martins, my favorite brand of ciggys are Morley's, and I was born in 1853."

"Straight to the point, I see. Well, I know for a fact you smoke Morley's, and I don't think I've seen you with a second pair of boots, so I'm going to have to go with your birthdate as being the lie d'jour."

"And one drink for the lady!" Spike crowed.

"Shit," she said taking long drink from the bottle, "so how many pairs of boots do you own?"

"Just the one."

"So you don't like Morley's?" she asked, confusion spreading over her face, "That's all I've seen you smoke…"

"I prefer them to all the rest," he said, a touch of a smile playing on his lips.

Realization dawned on her. "You sly bastard! There was no lie for me to pick! _That's_ cheating!"

"Only rules you stated was about drinkin' and bein' truthful about which statements were which," he said, now grinning like the cheshire cat, "Never said I couldn't omit the lies entirely."

"So you're 146? That's beyond geriatric. That's like Bob Barker times two."

"It's not the age, pet, it's the mileage," he laughed.

"And you're saying that you're high mileage or low mileage? I'm pretty sure a car that's been sitting around for 146 years wouldn't run, regardless of how many miles were on it," she snorted.

"Bloody well could. I'm low miles on the outside, high where it counts, in case you're wonderin'."

"Where it counts?" she asked, looking unsure as to whether she should be asking.

He gave her a salacious grin.

"Aaaand we're back to innuendo, so to that, I bid you a good sleep," she said, pulling her pillow over her head.

Chuckling, he lay back down on his makeshift mattress and slowly nodded off, trying to disregard the unpleasantly fruity taste in his mouth.

It seemed as though no time had passed when he opened his eyes again, but the electronic alarm clock on the side table was reading half past seven in the evening, and Charlie was no longer on the sofa. Or in the apartment, he realized as he got up and looked around.

Streetlights were illuminating the darkness outside the window, the bureau blocking the door had been shoved out of the way, and Spike went into immediate panic mode. He spied her suitcase, still laid out on the floor, which incidentally, only made him worry more. Grabbing his coat, he was about to go racing out of the apartment when Charlie stormed in.

"I may still have a soul, but I'm _seriously_ considering eating the landlord!" she announced, swinging the door shut, uncaring of the loud rattle the surrounding wall made.

"Won't tell if you promise to share," he said, hoping that she might be serious.

"Do you know what he said?" she fumed, not bothering to wait for a reply, "He said I owed him three extra months of rent for breaking my lease, AND he's not giving me my security deposit back because the door's broken. On what planet does it cost $700 to fix the lock on a door?!"

"On the planet of crooked landlords, pet. Been doin' it since the days of ancient Rome."

"Can I challenge him gladiator-style then? To the victor goes the spoils, and whoever loses can just be a loser who gets to… stand there in his loserness."

"Could just _take_ the spoils," Spike suggested, looking around her apartment and zeroing in on the microwave.

"You have some major issues with stealing," she said, frowning at him. She then tilted her head, narrowing her eyes towards the kitchen. "How quietly could we carry out the fridge between the two of us?"


	16. Chapter 16- Distinct Complicity

Under the cover of darkness, they made several trips between Charlie's apartment and the crypt, carrying over the microwave, a kitchen stool, several lamps, all the things that Charlie had originally planned on bringing, and the crowning jewel that was the full-sized, olive-green, almost-derelict refrigerator.

The fridge had proved difficult to extricate from the kitchen, but quickly became the most entertaining part of moving Charlie out of the apartment. Spike had tried to keep a fairly low profile since the Initiative incident, and though running away from a furious, shotgun wielding landlord whilst carrying a 250 pound refrigerator didn't exactly qualify as being surreptitious, it did qualify as the most fun he'd had in months.

Far less delightful than participating in a domestic goods heist, the rest of the night was spent cleaning the crypt, which annoyed Spike to no end. He'd mentioned to Red that it would be nice to get her assistance in the clean up after she'd first seen the mess, expecting that the witch could just snap her fingers and everything would be back in place, tidy and unbroken. Instead she'd simply conjured him a broom and dustpan, and instructed him to "go nuts".

Since most of Spike's belongings were trashed beyond repair, practically everything ended up in garbage bags instead of the dust pan. When he and Charlie had finally buffed the chalk lines off the crypt floor, swept up the feathers, and thrown the last of the ripped up sheets into the dumpster of the nearest convenience store, it was almost light out again.

Spike looked around his crypt, noting with pride that it actually felt cozy. He enjoyed the ambiance of the traditional creepy vampire dwelling, complete with cobwebs and dank air, but that was more of a surface thing. When it came to actually being at ease in his environment, he much preferred the cleanliness and warmth that came with more human preferences for interiors. And how could he could argue with owning multiple appliances?

Charlie had remade Spike's bed with her own sheets, and he repressed the shiver that ran creeping up and down his spine at the thought of having her scent wrapped around him as he slept. She let herself fall backwards onto it, sighing with contentment at finally being finished with tidying the crypt.

"You know, this isn't so bad. I can do this," she said, as though she were trying to convince herself to eat a pile of horse manure, not cohabitate with him in a well constructed stone mausoleum.

"Not bad? The rent's soddin' peanuts, neighbors are deathly quiet, and you have the dishiest flatmate this side of Sunnydale. From where I'm sittin', seems like a bloody holiday destination," he quipped, resting his hands on his belt buckle.

"Everyone's Dying to Go."

"What?"

"Just coming up with a slogan for your vacation crypt."

"Well don't go advertisin' it," he muttered, "maximum occupancy of two here. Know how many other undead would come crawlin' in?"

"I'm sure they'll be beating down the door as soon as the brochure is published," Charlie said dryly. "Every time you mention the undead, I forget for a moment that it includes me now too. When does the acceptance part of the Kubler-Ross model come into play?"

"Just keep movin', pet, there's no timeline. Won't forget the memories of bein' human, mind you, just becomes part of the past. Speakin' a' which, almost forgot," he said, pulling Bleakgrave's ring out of his coat pocket, where he'd kept it safe. He opened his palm and held the brass signet out to her.

"Huh. The last time there was flowers, wine, the whole down-on-one-knee thing, and a heartfelt speech so you have a lot to live up to. Maybe you should hang on to that, try again when we haven't spent the whole night scrubbing blood off the walls."

Was she serious? His fingers began to close around the ring, unsure of what to say.

"That was a joke," she said, smiling at him and reaching out to pry his fingers back open and take it. "Thanks. I thought it was gone."

"Gonna keep it as a souvenir?" he asked, "Can start a new tradition, like your mum, savin' things you filched from people. Could prolly fit one of the lightbulbs we nicked from the apartment into a jar..."

"I sort of want to melt it down into a bullet and leave it inside Bleakgrave's spleen as a kind of poetic justice. It's probably a better idea to just give it back to Giles though," she said as she tucked the ring into her pocket. "Redeem myself from past transgressions." She yawned and shut her eyes, sprawled out on the covers like she owned the whole mattress.

The thought that she might expect him to give up his bed occurred to him, as he eyed her figure and admired the silhouette her body made against the light fabric. The witless, foppish William Pratt would already be prostrate on the cold, hard, ground, but Spike wasn't _that_ chivalrous. He'd already spent one night bedless.

"Not gonna be hittin' the hay the floor again, if that's what you're thinkin'," he warned her, "And you broke my chair to bitsy pieces, so as far as options go, luv, not many cushy ones left."

Her eyes flew open and she made an exasperated noise, getting up to unlatch her suitcase. "Do I look like a princess? I can share a bed without my modesty or whatever you want to call it being compromised."

He wanted to make some pithy, full-of insinuation comment about how he could come up with about forty other ways he could compromise her if she liked, but he swallowed it instead. He was having trouble reading her, whether she was still upset at him or not, and the last thing he wanted was a ticked off house guest if he pushed it too far too quickly. Didn't mean he wouldn't be creating a checklist of all forty ways to save for later.

She gave him her typical deer-in-the-headlights glance as she pulled her pajamas out of her suitcase, so he rolled his eyes and turned his back, still managing to catch a side glimpse of skin and dusty purple lace as she slipped them on.

It was then that he realized he'd just accepted an invitation to his own personal hell; he was already walking the delicate balance between flirtation and physical actions, impatiently waiting for the green light to be lit before stepping over the line. And now temptation would be sleeping inches away from him in his own bed.

Charlie slid under the covers, curled away from him on her side, and by the time Spike realized that he'd stuck to his usual routine of shucking _all_ of his clothes off before getting under the sheets with her, it was too late. Over a hundred and twenty years of habits didn't change overnight, regardless of circumstance. And oh, god, did the fabric smell like heaven.

She rolled over, giving him a sleepy smile. "Should I say goodmorning, since it's morning and we're going to bed? It feels weird not saying goodnight."

"How 'bout sleep well, pet?" he suggested, noting that his pants were far more than an arm's length away, and he tucked the covers around himself in an effort to keep his blunder hidden.

"Okay. Sleep well, pet," she said, closing her eyes.

Spike wasn't positive that she was asleep, without the deep breathing that usually accompanied the sleep of the living. Still, he studied her face for a few minutes before shutting off his lamp and drifting off, with the intent to sleep for just a short while before rising to don his clothing.

Hands. Two of them, moving deliberately over his skin in the darkness of the crypt, leaving a trail goosebumps wherever they passed over. He was drowning in the scent of her, the feel of her velvet soft skin against his own.

"Fuck, luv, 'bout bloody time. Any idea how hard it's been, keepin' my hands to myself?" he growled, grabbing Charlie's arms and pulling her on top of him.

"Really hard, Spike, I can tell," she said mischievously, rubbing herself against him.

"Wanna taste you 'till you scream the walls down, then I'm gonna bury myself inside you, luv. Not come out 'till Sisyphus makes it up the hill."

"Oh Spike…" she moaned as she leaned down over him, her hair brushing lightly against his face. The lush, burnished strands smelled of leaves and woodsmoke, and somewhat of citrus scented cleaning products.

He reached up to run his fingers over her breasts, luxuriating in the supple handfuls that fit his palms perfectly, as her hair seemed to weigh heavily down on his face. And then suddenly there was no more weight of her body against his, nothing in his hands, just something pushing on his face.

"Spike!"

A pillow. There was a pillow flattened on top of his face. He pulled it off and opened an eye to find Charlie looking frustratedly down at him from where she was standing. Spike cursed his susceptibility to vivid dreams.

"Do you go into economy mode instead of sleeping? I kept I saying your name, and all you did was repeat my name back instead of waking up. Xander's here and he wants us to go to the Magic Box for some meeting. It's almost sundown."

"Great. Upstairs with you, be there in a tic," he grumbled, rubbing the slumber out of his eyes.

She put her hands on her hips, and gave him a knowing smirk. "Why? So you can go back to sleep? I know that trick. I invented it when I was fourteen."

"No, so I can get dressed," Spike corrected her, leering at her from under the covers. "'Less you wanna watch, pet?"

She left his side of the bed and began rummaging through her bag on the other end of the room, pulling out a terrycloth towel and a change of clothes. "Ah, nope. I'll clear out of here. But first, can you show me how to turn the water on for your shower? It's an interesting system you've jerry-rigged, but you seem to be lacking an instruction manual."

Clearly she assumed he had worn _something_ to bed, but he wasn't about to spell it out for her. Too easy. And _evil_ , remember? "Show you later. Didn' you just say we're about to take a ramble over to Slayer HQ?"

"It'll take you two seconds! And I feel super dirty after last night's clean-a-thon, so I want to shower really fast before we go," she complained, brandishing a bottle of what looked like cherry syrup. Probably shampoo.

"Fine," he agreed, a giant smile plastered on his face. Sod it, _he_ couldn't care less about being naked, it was her feelings on the subject that he had been shielding. It was his crypt, his shower, his body, and she wasn't taking a hint, so he swung his legs out of bed, let the covers slip off of him and gave her a big morning eyeful.

"Oh…"

"See the trick is," he said as he unabashedly grabbed her hand and led the way to the shower, "you've got to take a firm grip on the water lever, move it just right." He stepped in and grabbed her hand, wrapped her fingers around the water handle, wrapping his own over the top of hers, "Give it just a few well timed pulls, then you'll get nice and wet."

As he slowly pulled the handle, the water started pouring out the shower head and he stepped underneath it, letting the cool liquid run in glistening streams over his pale, muscle-carved flesh. He watched as her eyes slowly swept from his feet to his head, and he could see that she wanted him with every subtle movement her body made, could smell the desire wafting from every pore.

"More than enough room for two, pet," he purred, giving her a sultry look from beneath his lashes and running a soapy hand down his abdomen, "if you feel like workin' up a good lather…"

"And now I want nothing more than have the last ten seconds wiped from my memory forever and why is it always me that has to come get you?" Xander was standing by the entranceway to the shower room and had his eyes shut tightly. Charlie yanked her hand out from underneath Spike's as fast as if the handle was a crucifix.

If it weren't for the chip, Spike would have been more than happy to erase a whole lot more from the boy's memory. "Don't remember invitin' you downstairs," he said evenly.

"And nobody regrets being here more than me. I just wanted to know where the TV remote was, so I yelled down, and nobody answered, and I'm going back upstairs now," Xander said, turning around, "and hurry up, Buffy's waiting."

"I'm… I'll… do the thing with the washing up later," Charlie said as she shoved her towel in his direction and raced in the direction of the ladder.

By the time Spike had toweled off, slipped back into his clothing and headed upstairs, Xander was waiting by himself, eyes glued to the television which he had apparently found the remote for. Spike was reasonably certain it'd been on top of the TV the whole time. The newswoman on the screen cheerfully congratulated the Sunnydale Razorbacks football team for making it further in the regionals than they had in a decade.

"Charlie said she had to go talk to her boss at the bar and get something to eat, and by something to eat, I'm assuming she didn't mean coffee and a breakfast sandwich," Xander said, shutting the TV off. "She said she'd meet us at the shop."

"Well then, no need to be standin' about if the Slayer's waitin' with bated breath. Can tell her how fast a shower I took. Didn't even condition," Spike lamented, seriously annoyed at his lack of shower time. Bleached hair required a tremendous amount of effort and maintenance.

Xander eyed the wet towel that Spike tossed over a iron sconce as they headed off towards the Magic Box, "I'm going to need so much therapy."

"Bet you will," Spike said, giving him a pissy smile, "After gettin' a peek at Spike's willy, it's gonna take years to overcome your feelin's of inadequacy and self-pity."

"I really hate you, you know that, right?"

* * *

 _A/N: Hiya guys! How are you doing? So I originally planned to have this little story be... well, a little story. But then I started getting more ideas and it's getting longer. And longer. So, I uh, hope you're enjoying cause things are about to get a little nutty. Thanks for all the follows, favs, and sweet reviews. xoxo_


	17. Chapter 17- Out of the Fryingpan

It was a nice evening to walk to the store, Spike thought to himself as he passed through the cemeteries and local streets of Sunnydale. The sun had just gone down, the wind was softly blowing in the trees, and Harris was keeping a solid thirty foot distance between them.

And as all good things eventually must come to an end, Anya was giddily waiting for Xander at the front of the store. Spike's mood rapidly started to deteriorate when the first thing out of the ex-vengeance demon's mouth were the words, "You're still here? I thought for sure they were going to stake you." And that was just the beginning of the downward spiral.

Being inside of the store was about as much fun as venereal diseases. Problematic, frustrating, and fuck, did he wish there was something he could take for it.

"Where's Charlie?" Buffy asked from her seat on top of the counter by the register, not even deigning to let him stand in the store for the space of a breath before starting up with the inquisition.

"Where's White Bread?" Spike retorted, doing his best to imitate the demanding petulance in her voice.

"Training mission. And I'll ask again, where is she?"

"She'll be here in a mo', needed stop off at the bar," he said cooly, focusing his attention on Giles. "And I need to talk to you, Watcher. Somethin's not right. You lot must've done the soul-mojo wrong or some such, don't know what to make of it."

Giles looked up from the store's receipts that he'd been pouring through, giving Spike a somewhat concerned glance before returning to the bills. "It's not a spell that's been done before, so I daresay something could've gone wrong," he admitted, distractedly flipping to another page. "Charlie did seem alright when she awoke though. What's happened? Some kind of mind deterioration? An issue with the protection tattoos?"

"No, no. That's all fine," Spike said with an impatient wave of his hand, "it's just… her eatin' habits. I'm not sayin' it'd be a good thing if she was goin' around havin' a bender on human happy meals, prolly end up on the wrong end of a certain stake," he narrowed his eyes at Buffy, "but it's just not right."

Buffy raised an eyebrow at him, and hopped down off the counter, finally interested in what he was trying to say. "What's not right?" she asked.

"Seems she's got the taste for somethin' a bit more cannibalistic than the average vamp."

"She what?" Giles asked, readjusting his glasses and giving Spike his full attention.

"She seems to prefer demonic blood," Spike said, spelling it out as slowly as he could, wondering how on earth he could rephrase it any more simply.

Both Buffy and the Watcher were silent.

"Are you both deaf?" he snapped after waiting a minute with no response from either party. "Had a fight with a nasty bunch of sods a couple a' nights ago, I look up after I take one out, and there's Charlie, up on the back of a Borthrall demon, takin' a drink out of it's neck like it's a bloody soda fountain. And now she's off at Willy's lookin' for a snack."

"Wait, wait, wait," Buffy said, crossing her arms and giving him the squinty look that always rubbed him the wrong way, "You mean to tell me that she's a vampire that eats other _demons_ instead of animals and people?"

His patience about to run out completely, Spike pulled out a chair out from under the table and flopped himself down. "What the bloody hell have I been trying to tell you?"

"Whoa…" Buffy said, pondering the implications. She stole a glance at Giles, who was looking back at her in a similar state of fascination.

Spike shook his head, lost in thought, and talking mostly to himself, "Don't know what to do 'bout it…"

"This is…"

"Awful," he finished. "She'll be tryin' to eat my friends, gotta tell Clem not to come around-"

"-like Christmas. This is like Christmas for Buffy. Ohmygod, your face, Spike…" Buffy let out a giggle, then keeled over in fit of gut-bursting laughter.

"It's not bloody funny!" Spike sputtered, incensed at the lack of concern he was receiving. "What if I have to host poker night? She'll have to come here, might eat the players. And what if she gets bitey with me again?!"

Buffy attempted to stop laughing, barely succeeding and unable to keep a straight face as she answered him. "It's going to be really tough for you, Spike, having to walk around not knowing if some vampire might eat your friends, or drain you dry if you're not careful. Speaking from experience, you have my sincere sympathy."

The convulsive laughter that the slayer had managed to momentarily choke down burst forth again, "Oh god, I'm kidding. You so deserve this."

"I'm sorry Spike," Giles laughed, removing his glasses to wipe the tears of mirth from his eyes, "It appears that the tables have turned. Let's invite her to dinner… Buffy, what do you think... rack of Polgara? Some roast Haxxil Beast perhaps... Or should we just truss Spike up like a Thanksgiving turkey? I think I still have a few leftover cans of cranberry sauce in my cupboards..."

Hearing the boisterous laughter coming from inside the shop, Xander and Anya ambled in through the front door, arm in arm and eager to find out what was causing the amusement. Or unamusement, depending on the individual. "What's so funny?" Anya asked, looking at the trio of occupants by the register.

"Xander! Anya, oh guess-" Buffy said, breathless from hysterics, "-guess what Charlie's new diet is?"

Xander quirked a mystified eyebrow at her. "Err, wouldn't the general field guide to vampires assert it be people?"

"It's not funny," Spike said yet again, crossing his arms and sulking in his chair.

Buffy was practically beaming. "Nope. Not people. Guess again."

Anya glanced delightedly between Spike and Buffy, "Charlie drinks demons? Huh." She gave Spike a bright smile, "Well, some vampires find it to be a real turn on in the bedroom, you just have to make sure she doesn't suck out _too_ much blood, or else you won't be able to-"

"-Oh-kay!" Xander exclaimed, guiding his girlfriend to an open chair, just as Willow entered the store with Charlie trailing right behind her.

"Hey! Look who I found, all wandering about like a stray little kitten in the streets of Sunnydale. Can we keep her?" Willow announced to the group, putting an arm around Charlie's shoulder. Spike was pleased to see that Charlie seemed less on edge, a smile on her face that leaned towards cheerful at the expression of friendship. After a moment, he realized that he was feeling the same thrill of lightheartedness just by witnessing the exchange.

"She was lost?" Anya asked, frowning at Willow in confusion. "I thought she's been here for weeks, how come she doesn't know her way around yet?"

"I say wandering, but I mean walking. We just ran into each other on the way over."

"Oh, I see," Anya nodded, in apparent understanding, "That must have been painful and disorienting. You should probably be more careful."

"Patch things up with Willy, pet?" Spike asked, trying to divert the conversation before someone felt the need to explain the idiosyncrasies of the modern English language to the ex-demon. Again.

"Hardly," Charlie snorted. "You'll never guess who just became a vampire _and_ doesn't have a job anymore." She sighed as she sat down in the empty chair next to Spike, "And spoiler, if you _do_ guess that it's me, you'll win all the points."

"He wasn't too happy about the no call, no show?" Buffy asked. "You were gone for a while, but I've been told that dying is a pretty solid excuse."

"Yeah… more like not happy about the fact that his best customers make up the giant blocks on the bottom of my spiffy new food pyramid."

"So the rumor mill beat you to the punch. Word travels faster around the Sunnydale underbelly than it did in the high school locker room," Willow remarked sagely.

"Bartrax took care of it himself, went straight to the bar," Charlie told them, frustratedly scratching at a bit of dirt on her jeans. Spike immediately regretted letting the contemptible demon run off during the fight. "Willy doesn't want me around, he thinks I'll scare all the customers off. I did manage a drink of some of his blackmarket stuff before I left though, so at least I'll be set on eating for a while."

"And thank bloody hell for that," Spike muttered.

It went quiet for a moment, and Charlie sat up straight and took a deep breath out of habit before speaking to the group. "Um... so I'm really sorry for everything that happened. I didn't want anyone else getting caught up in my… family drama, but I should've just been honest about everything from the start. I promise, from now on, no more secrets, no more question dodging," Charlie said, digging a hand into her pocket. She pulled out the magician's ring and handed it to Giles. "It was still in my pocket when Bleakgrave… you know..." her voice faded off.

"Thank you," Giles said, warmly accepting the piece of jewelry. "I appreciate the apology. And the merchandise return."

"I'm sorry you're dead," Anya proclaimed, giving Charlie a sympathetic smile, "You had a nice laugh and you'll live on deeply in my heart forever."

Charlie seemed unsure of the appropriate response. "Uh, Thanks, Anya."

Xander looked at his girlfriend with a quizzical expression, also clearly uncertain as to what she was doing.

"I read that one someone dies, it's customary to say something nice about the deceased and then convey an overused but well intentioned platitude," Anya explained indignantly, resentful that her behavior was being questioned for what felt like the millionth time.

"Well, yeah, but that's generally reserved for the family and loved ones of the deceased," Xander explained.

"So what _are_ you supposed to say to the person that died?" Anya asked.

There was a long silence before Xander replied. "Umm.. nevermind, that was fine."

"So I suppose what we need to know is what kind of interaction you've had with Bleakgrave in the past," Giles said, vehemently trying to move the meeting forward into more informative territory. "Spike filled us in on most of the details and mentioned that the magician had a hand in killing your husband, and obviously he killed your mother-in law, but what about the rest of your family?" He pulled out a notepad and flipped to a few pages in, readying his pen and looking at Charlie expectantly.

"My mom died when I was really young, don't really remember her, but I doubt it was his doing. And my dad died of cancer a few years ago, then I moved in with Jesse and his mom. And that's kinda my whole family in a depressing little nutshell."

"There was no other immediate family that could have taken you in?" Giles asked, the epitome of concerned adult-voice.

"My aunt could have, I suppose, but she was never around. She was apparently on some super-secret mission, but she disappeared. The last I ever heard from her was a voicemail message telling me that my grandfather had been murdered and I needed to stay the hell out of Sunnydale. Guess I should have listened, huh?"

Spike's blood froze as he realized that the conversation was rapidly heading into dangerous territory. The only previous Kalderash in Sunnydale that he knew of was the Watcher's old bird, Jessica or Jennifer or something, the one that had her neck snapped by Angelus. Had to be the aunt she was talking about, and it wouldn't be too difficult for any of the Scoobies or Giles to put two and two together if she mentioned any more details. And if anyone else figured out that Charlie was a Kalderash, they'd undoubtedly fill her in on the parts he'd played in her genealogy.

The phone suddenly rang and Giles got up to answer it, while Xander scooped the _Sunnydale Press_ off the table and began rifling through to the funnies section. Relieved at the momentary distraction, Spike loosened his grip on the chair seat.

"Anyone have ideas on how to track Bleakgrave down? There haven't been any bodies in Sunnydale with his usual calling card on them in the past couple of days," Buffy said, rolling her eyes as Xander began reading a comic strip and giggling like a deranged hyena.

"Maybe he wasn't actually released from the hell dimension?" Willow said hopefully, "And even if he was and there were bodies everywhere, it's not like they'd be piled under a big neon sign, saying hey, look who's back! Here's his exact location if you want to come kill him!"

"We're not killing him," Buffy said. "As far as we know, he's human, which falls under the we-don't-kill-humans code of ethics, so we bag him, and hand him off to Riley's Special Ops team to deal with. Though I guess if we oops! Kill him in self-defense, it's another story."

"You said his name is Bleakgrave?" Anya asked.

"Once or twice," Buffy answered.

Anya tore the newspaper out of Xander's hands and dropped it on the table, reading the front page headline aloud, "Nathanial Bleakgrave's Triumphant Return to Magic, Opening Tonight in Los Angeles."

"It's not like there'd be a guy that just came in here with a lifetime supply of free mochaccinos and puppies," Willow said, looking optimistically at the front door of the Magic Box. She shrugged at the funny glances her friends gave her. "Just in case."

Buffy had just opened her mouth to start talking again when Giles came running back to the table, excited and practically out of breath. "I have just heard from a reliable source that we know where Bleakgrave will be tonight!" he exclaimed.

"Don't suppose it would be in a big ol' theater? For the city slicker types? L.A. maybe?" Spike asked, delighting in the opportunity to take the wind out of the watcher's sails.

"Why, yes, how did you-?"

"The media strikes again," Buffy answered, pushing the paper in Giles' direction.

"Ah. I see. Well, at least the phone call confirms it," Giles muttered.

"So part two...we've got him in our crosshairs, but I don't think we should go in all guns blazing. We need to find out what his weaknesses are, what makes him tick. Unless we're thinking he's planning an attack on the people that go to the show?" Buffy looked questioningly towards Spike and Charlie.

"No," Spike responded, assured that he knew Bleakgrave well enough to understand his motivation. "He'll kill quietly, but the audience is his lifeblood. Should've heard the bugger nat on about entertain' people and bein' doted on by the masses. He wants to be adored, he does, so this production's about him showin' off and nothing more."

"Well that's good. Wouldn't want you to have to turn an entire audience into vampires if they get attacked. Especially since it seems you've forgotten how to do it right," Buffy said.

"Wasn't my fault and you bloody know it," Spike insisted, making a face at the slayer. "And on the topic, any idea on what other little happy surprises and quirks might be in store, Rupes?"

Charlie looked uncertainly at the watcher. "I mean, I _am_ a vampire, right?"

"Well, yes," Giles answered. "Mostly. I suspect that you must be some kind of hybrid… an anomaly, if you will. There's no telling what the range of effects will be."

"So you're saying I'll need to use the write-in option under "species" the next time the demon census comes around?" Charlie asked, cracking a self-deprecating smile.

Giles chuckled. "Well, no, you're still part of the vampire species, but from my research on hybrids, there is a high likelihood that you'll grow horns or small tail."

Spike could have sworn he heard the sound of crickets chirping as the entire group, Charlie especially, stared at Giles in abject horror.

"I'm joking... that was a… well anyway, back to work," Giles stammered, as he awkwardly grabbed a research book off the table and went to go sit behind the register with his cup of tea.

Willow kept an eye on the watcher as he began leafing through the pages. "There's a murderous magician on the loose and Giles is making jokes," she said, with a shake of her head. "There's gotta be an apocalypse coming."

"A murderous magician…" Xander mused thoughtfully, "A Murgician, if you will."

Buffy steepled her fingers and looked around the group earnestly, her irrefutable leadership ability manifesting in her tone of voice. "Okay, so I'm thinking recon mission. See the show, find out how much magic we're up against, maybe see if we can check some things out behind the scenes. It'll be dangerous, but I don't think we have a choice. As long as Bleakgrave wants to continue his stint as a magician, he'll need to keep killing."

"Murgician," Xander corrected, "as long as he wants to continue his stint as a _murgician_."

"I'm going." Charlie said it quietly, but she was firm enough in her declaration that everyone heard.

"Like hell you are," Spike growled, wondering what the point of turning her had been if she was planning to risk unlife and limb by rolling right back under Bleakgrave's nose. He could tell by the stubborn look on her face that he probably couldn't convince her otherwise, but he felt the need to try.

"Of course I'm going," she said, more willfully than before, "I got everyone into this mess, and I'm the only one here with any kind of protection from him."

"On the off chance it escaped your thought process, you still profess a soul, pet, which makes you high target, not low target."

"And on the off chance it escaped _your_ thought process, Spike, I also still _profess_ the same tattoos that protected me from having my soul taken the first time."

"You don't know they still bloody work!" he argued heatedly, beginning to get worked up by the lack of reasonable judgement.

"You don't know if they don't!" she shot back.

"Hey! Order! Order!" Buffy exclaimed, looking exasperatedly at the two vampires, "Let's take this one step at a time here."

"Hey, I want to go too!" Xander declared. "This is like the most fun occurance in the name of Scooby assignments that's ever happened. Magic show? That's my thing!"

Buffy shook her head emphatically. "Absolutely not. I'm drawing the line at two people. The less of us that go, the better. We don't want to draw any more attention ourselves than we have to."

"Well I wasn't planning on wearing my "Trying to Kill Bleakgrave" T-Shirt," Xander complained, slouching down in his chair.

"You don't _have_ a Trying to Kill Bleakgrave T-Shirt because we're not trying to kill Bleakgrave," Buffy reminded him.

"Oh!" Anya chimed in, happily joining the conversation, "There were four or five David Copperfield shirts I saw in your bottom drawer that you could wear instead!"

"Not mine," Xander squeaked.

"Look, Spike's an obvious choice because he doesn't have a soul to lose," Buffy said. "He can't fight back against Bleakgrave, but it shouldn't be necessary anyway. I don't love the idea of Charlie going, but she knows more about Bleakgrave than the rest of us, and she's got vamp strength now."

For someone who fought new vampires on an almost nightly basis, Spike was severely disappointed in the slayer's misconceptions regarding the fortitude of newly made vampires. "She's a fledge, Slayer. Vamp newbie. For Bleaks, it'd be like punchin' a baby seal."

There was a collective noise of outrage over the thought of hurting a baby animal from the group.

"Did you actually just compare me to a fish-eating aquatic mammal baby?" Charlie asked him, wrinkling her nose in displeasure.

"You don't have much in the way of defenses. That's the point," Spike clarified.

"I have other defenses."

Spike cocked his head and gave her the most unimpressed look he could muster. "And what's that, the itsy bitsy bit o' magic you slung at me durin' your failed attempt at a getaway?"

"Dropped you on your ass, didn't it?" Charlie said, glaring at him. "I'm no Bleakgrave, but I can do a few basic spells. It could be helpful."

"Oooh, I didn't know that you were a fellow dabbler in the magicks. How far have you gotten in the _Gristwile Compendium_?" Willow asked, interest perked at the mention of doing spells.

"Gristwile… Compendium?"

"Yeah, it's like the magic users equivalent of _The Programmer's Comprehensive Guide_ for computer geeks," Willow explained.

Charlie bit her lip, seemingly embarrassed at the need for clarification. "Okay, so let's just say I have the learners permit equivalent of magic technique."

"Learner's permit and no bloody vehicle to drive," Spike muttered.

The look Charlie gave him was filled with so much wrath that everyone around the table grew quiet and uncomfortable. Willow cleared her throat and got up to get a drink of water.

"It's a two hour trip to LA, right? In the car. Together? For two hours? Together?" Xander asked, with a nervous glance at Buffy. The Slayer nodded. "You know, I never liked magic shows that much. That sawing people in half illusion is so overused."

"And the bunny in the hat trick," Anya added, shuddering. "Why do they do that?"

"Alright, well I guess that's decided," Buffy said, standing up and checking her watch. "So it's 5:30 now. If you two leave in the next half hour, you'll have plenty of time. I'll make a few phone calls, and in the meantime you should pack and figure out the transportation aspect."

"We can take the DeSoto. But are we stayin' at a resort or somethin'?" Spike asked, hoping the excursion was Scooby-funded, and preferably somewhere with a fully stocked minibar. "Don't wanna be locked up in a dive motel 'cause Rupes is too much of a tightwad to spare the dosh."

"Don't worry, Spike," Buffy said with a grin, as she walked towards the phone. "I know of a great hotel in L.A. that you won't even need to pay for. Just don't try to steal things from the owner again, or they'll be sweeping you out of the cracks on the Hollywood Walk of Fame."

"Bloody hell," Spike groaned, when the realization hit him.


	18. Chapter 18- Into the Fire, Part 1

_A/N: Dedicated to RFK22 and Guest(s), thanks for your feedback! Ready for L.A.? xoxo_

* * *

"Oh, baby, never should've waited so long to do this. Feels so soddin' good," Spike moaned from the driver's seat of the DeSoto.

"Do you want me to get out? I feel like you and your car need a few minutes alone." Charlie looked askance at him from the passenger side as he ran his hands lovingly over the steering wheel.

The music was up and the windows were rolled all the way down, nighttime air racing by as Spike rocketed down the freeway to Los Angeles. It had been ages since he'd even taken the car out of the lot where he'd stashed it, let alone drive it after sundown, not needing the blacked-out windows for protection from the sun. He'd almost forgotten how exhilarating it felt.

"Jealous?" Spike asked, grinning and lewdly curling the tip of his tongue over his teeth.

"Concerned," Charlie replied flippantly. She relaxed into the leather seat and let her hand ride the forceful air passing outside the window, her annoyance over his attempt to leave her safely behind in Sunnydale still palpable.

There was a considerable lack of conversation after that, excepting an occasional comment from either party regarding the rapidly accumulating odometer or the speed at which they were passing a cop cruiser. Good old Johnny Rotten was the only voice emanating from the car with any consistency.

Having made the trip between Sunnydale and L.A. before, Spike knew it should have taken them much longer than it did, but with the lack of rush hour traffic and his tendency towards a lead foot and reckless maneuvering, they were driving down Hyperion Avenue in under ninety minutes.

"Suppose this is it," he said, pulling up to the curb and halting the DeSoto by a gated entrance. They gathered their belongings and exited the car, walking hesitantly past the wrought-iron gate and into the hotel's palm-filled courtyard. Stuccoed walls and the dim silhouettes of windows with decorative steel bars surrounded them on all sides, while a trickling water fountain decked in cherubs pointed the way to the front of the hotel.

"It looks kind of… not open for business," Charlie observed, noting the lack of both lighting and guests.

"Not big on crowd scenes, he is. Rather be one of those moping, depressing, just-stake-me-now types. If there wasn't city ordinance to deal with, probably chain himself to a soddin' rock, let the fowl peck his entrails out on the regular."

"He? This belongs to a friend of yours?"

"Not remotely." Spike flung the doors open, taking in the high-ceilings and dramatic archways of the hotel's foyer in one envious glance. "Well that figures," he snorted, "I'm stuck in a cement box, and Broody Pants gets the bloody Waldorf Astoria."

A young woman looked up from an expansive wooden reception desk, stuffed a few sheets of paper into a manila file folder, and stood up to receive the pair.

"Cordelia!" Spike drew closer and greeted the tanned brunette warmly. "How are you? Been a long time, pet."

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, looking at him as though he were the previous jogger's sweat on a gym treadmill. "It's barely been a year, Spike, and as far as I'm concerned, a lifetime's not long enough. Did you forget? The ring of Amara? The threatening? The torture? The almost killing?"

"All worked out in your lot's favor, don't see why you're still bent outta shape 'bout it," he complained. He wasn't surprised she was still pissed, the whole L.A. crew held onto grudges just as tightly as the group in Sunnydale, he just wasn't interested in hearing his failed plan rehashed in front of company.

"Oh, I'm very _in_ shape, thank you. But I don't like you being here at all. The only reason you've been allowed to step foot inside this building is because Buffy asked Angel for a favor, and because you're muzzled now." Happily finding someone other than Spike to focus her attention on, Cordelia extended her hand with a friendly smile to the girl standing beside him. "Hi, I'm Cordelia."

"Charlie. Thanks for letting us stay here."

"Where is the Great Poof, anyway?" Spike asked, warily inspecting all the dark corners and alcoves in the open lobby of the hotel. He half expected Angel to be lurking in the rafters somewhere, waiting silently to tackle and stake him at the first opportunity.

"Angel's got enough on his plate right now without having to deal with you. You'll stay out of his hair, he'll stay out of your radioactive sideburns. Kapeesh?"

Spike held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

"Great. Now that we've got _that_ out of the way, I'll show you to your room." Cordelia motioned them to follow her up one of the sweeping, carpeted staircases. They continued down a hallway with worn deco wallpaper, passing doors with brass numbers set into their walnut-stained veneers on both sides of the hall.

"There's only one guest room that's actually clean and set up for vampires, but there's a pull-out couch and a bed, so it should accommodate two," Cordelia informed them. "If you want separate rooms, there's a second guest room on the first floor, but it's missing curtains and there's a funky smell we can't get out of the carpet. Poltergeist problem."

"My vote's for the scentless, non-flammable room," Charlie replied, "and I think we can manage sharing." She looked to Spike for his opinion, and he shrugged in feigned indifference, privately elated that she'd picked the option he'd wanted without even needing to open his mouth.

"Okay, cool. I already hung up your clothes for tonight in there anyway. They're rentals, so try not to get into a fight with anything. Or if you have to fight… just fight gently. You know, go easy on the seams. Angel's gone through four suits in the last few months, and I'm out of plausible excuses with the rental place." Cordelia pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked the door to the hotel room. "So, this is it."

The suite itself wasn't as luxurious as the foyer had promised, but it was clean and comfortable, the walls coated in a mellow shade of burgundy, and the windows hidden behind heavy striped drapery. A simple upholstered bed, covered in a navy quilt sat in the far end of the room.

"I like it. It's got a nice, non-cobwebby thing going on," Charlie said, looking appreciatively about the bedroom, and setting her bag on the couch. "So the show starts at 9? We should probably head over pretty soon right?"

Cordelia nodded, handing Charlie the room key. "Yeah, but I'm calling you a cab. It looks like the undead cast of Grease sells drug paraphernalia out of your car, which is the opposite of being stealthy, and I think Buffy mentioned the word stealthy about six times."

"Hey now! Bite your tongue, that car is a classic!" Spike commanded, putting down the glossy chrome-belled alarm clock he'd been inspecting. Either Angel was doing very well for himself as a detective, or he'd inherited a whole lot of extra commodities when he purchased the haunted hotel. Spike suspected the latter.

"Do you need anything else?" Cordelia asked, pretending that Spike wasn't in the room.

"I'll be needin' a turn-down service later," Spike informed her. "Have Captain Forehead stop in to put some bonbons on my pillow and make my beddy-bye all fluffy." His face lit up in a wide grin when she glared at him.

"The only service _you'll_ be given, should you need it, involves a pointy piece of wood and a vacuuming up after. Got it?" Cordelia looked as though she would be thrilled to immediately assist with such a task.

"Clear as a crystal. Now push off, Cordy, gotta get all dressed up with somewhere to be." He jovially fingered the rented jacket, shirt, and pants that were hanging in an open closet. A bit poncy for his taste, but his duster would stick out like a sore thumb in a theater full of upper-middle class yuppies and silicon valley executives.

"Your people skills are impressive," Charlie said wryly, as soon as Cordelia had shut the door behind her. "I thought for a second that this was about to turn into a solo mission."

"Don't fret, luv," he said, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto the bed, followed by his t-shirt. He slipped into the provided dusty coral dress shirt, leaving it unbuttoned for sinful effect. "Wouldn't make you walk into town without a bloke on your arm."

"You made it sound like that Captain Forehead had some time on his hands. I'm sure he'd make for a viable alternative," Charlie remarked, watching him as he went back to the closet for the rest of his outfit. Spike was certain that she wouldn't be suggesting the idea of a partner swap if she even suspected that Angelus was responsible for her favorite aunt's nap in the dirt.

"Moot point. Won't let myself get dusted 'til I get to take you out in this tasty little ensemble." Spike pulled out the tiny dress that Cordelia had left on a hanger, waving it tauntingly at his vampire counterpart.

"That looks… snug."

"Thus the basis of it's appeal," he said with a chuckle as she grabbed it and barricaded herself into the bathroom.

A little while later, Charlie emerged, walking self-consciously in a pair of black high heels, and clutching her abandoned pile of clothes in her arms. Her hair was pinned in a simple twist, and she had taken the time to do her makeup, eyeliner smudged and smoky and lips painted a deep berry. The dark, thigh-high green silk dress that fit her body as though it were tailored for her made him momentarily forget how to tie his shoes.

"Do I look okay?" she asked, "I've never had to get all dressed up without seeing myself in the mirror before." Spike was too busy drinking in the sight of her to answer, and she grimaced in embarrassment. "There's lipstick all over my face, isn't there?"

"Not yet, there isn't." One corner of his mouth curved upwards suggestively, and he could envision it, the swollen, bitten lips, smeared with color from his own lips assault.

"Could you do up the rest of the buttons on the back of my dress? I got most of them, but I think there's about a billion left."

"Better at the undoin', of course, but I'll make a one time exception," he replied. The clicking of her heels was muffled by the carpeting as walked towards him, and he circled her, appreciating the sinuous way the fabric clung to her hips. Once he had deftly buttoned up the back, resisting the numerous urges to glide his fingers over her naked skin, she turned to face him again.

"You look… different," Charlie observed, adjusting his fussy red-patterned tie that Spike was sure Angel had picked out. "Not just the suit, but your hair isn't slicked back so much."

"Wanted a little bit of disguisin' so I ditched the hair product."

"Huh." She ran her hand through the loose curls of hair that he'd fastidiously combed the gel out of. "It seems very unlike you, but I kinda dig it anyway."

"Think he'd recognize me, then?" he asked, his voice coming out as a purr as her fingertips stroked his scalp in a way that sent vibrations of pleasure frolicking down his spine.

"No. He only saw your vamp face, and you're rocking that dashing playboy look rather than your usual lead singer of a punk band one."

She began to pull away, but he encircled her wrist with his fingers and held her hand against the contours of his cheek. "You and me. We have some unfinished business to attend," he murmured, "Perhaps not now, perhaps not tonight, but mark my words, pet, there will be a reckonin'."

Charlie's eyes drifted down to his lips and for a split second he was certain she was going to kiss him. Until, of course, there was a loud knock at the door, and she took an abrupt step backwards.

"Bloody hell," Spike said under his breath.

"Your cab is here," Cordelia called out.

* * *

"This is schmancy. I wish my stomach wasn't all queasy so I could actually enjoy some of this." Charlie said, once they'd arrived at the theater and stepped out of the taxi. She handed the driver a few bills, and watched him drive off down the street as though she wished she was still in it.

"Nervous? Or gotta case of the munchies?" Spike asked, resting a hand lightly against the small of her back as they walked under the marquee. Bleakgrave's name was spelled out above like a warning in inky block letters, and they got in line in the front of the theater, several guests away from the ticket window.

"Kind of terrified," Charlie said, tapping her thumb distractedly against her thigh. "I could use a stiff drink and a tranquilizer right about now. And maybe some of those blinders that they put on horses to keep them from being all jumpy and distracted."

He reached inside his pinstriped jacket, withdrawing the silver flask he'd stowed away in the inner pocket, and offered it to her. "Can help with one of those."

"Is that…?"

"Bourbon."

"Right. Bourbon." She took it from him and tilted her head back to take a long sip. "You wouldn't happen to have two or three more of these stashed in your jacket, would you?"

Five minutes in and she was already wilting into the role of the alcoholic sidekick, he thought. Didn't bode well for the rest of the night. "Might give the game away if I hafta carry you in, pet."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I guess it's now or never." She handed the flask back to him as they arrived at the front of the line. The attendant slid two tickets beneath the glass, reserved for him by Cordelia under the name Al Bino, a pseudonym that Charlie had giggled at but Spike didn't find to be particularly hilarious.

They meandered into the high-ceilinged lobby, full of gilded wall carvings and dripping with crystal chandeliers, weaving between a mass of attendees to get to the theater entrance. The glow of electric light from the wall sconces lit the majestic room in a vivid hue of amber, diffusing a sheen on the richly embroidered fabrics that were draped between each pillar and archway.

An tuxedo-clad usher guided them to their seats towards the back of the theater, as an announcement blared over the intercom that the show was about to begin. The throngs of people in the lobby began pouring into the theater.

"Never in my life have I been so glad to not have front row seats," Charlie said, once they'd sat in their assigned row. She shivered as the lights began to dim.

"Always preferred a mosh pit, myself. Cheaper. More fun. No one cares if there's blood," he said with a nostalgic sigh.

Darkness settled over the theater, and the incessant whispering of the crowd grew silent. Dozens of lanterns at the front of the stage suddenly burst into flame, quickly dying down to smaller conflagrations and casting the velvet curtain in a warm orange light. Leisurely, the drapery was drawn open to reveal a single figure, underlit and cutting a swatch of pallor into an otherwise pitch black stage.

As the figure stepped forward into the light, it revealed itself to be a bald, small statured demon of some sort, though to most of the audience he would pass for a strange looking human. The demon cleared his throat.

"Life. Physics. Beauty. Magic. All four components, all with their own set of rules and limitations. But what if the limits could be broken, the rules changed and molded into new ones? Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, on this very stage, you will see things never seen before… you will be captivated, see physics pushed beyond the realm of possibility, the very boundaries of life itself eradicated. Magic, in its purest form. Tonight, my good people, I give you the master of all magicians. I give you The Bewildering Bleakgrave."

The audience erupted into a crescendo of cheers and applause as the demon exited the stage and the theater plunged into darkness again. Spike felt an electric tingle of power from high above him, and looking up, he saw a man floating in from the back of the theater, prismatic light drifting around him like the swirling colors in a soap bubble.

Noises of astonishment arose from the crowd, as people began to stare and point at the hovering magician sailing towards the front of the theater. Bleakgrave landed effortlessly on the stage, smoothing out his ruby red vest and tailed black overcoat with his palms. He surveyed the audience as though he were a king among his loving subjects, smiling demurely and nodding his head graciously as the crowd burst into roars and shouts of approval.

When the cheers died down, Bleakgrave began to speak, his deep, booming voice filling the theater. "Los Angeles. The City of Angels. When I first heard mention this city, I pictured cherubs, fragrant meadows, seraphs playing harps, and miles of virgin forest. I was very disappointed when I discovered that there were more pounds of concrete in this city than there were trees."

"Imagine he'll be downright inconsolable when he tours the Big Apple," Spike muttered, low enough that only Charlie could hear.

"But what does it matter, when you can create whatever reality you want?" Bleakgrave asked the audience, pulling a sturdy ceramic pot out of thin air. He placed it on the ground by his feet. "I say, let there be flora in this concrete jungle."

The magician waved his hands dramatically over the pot, and shoots of greet began to sprout from inside, rapidly dividing and lengthening out of the vessel until they were spilling over the lip of the stage like water over a falls.

The vines curled up into the balcony, up the aisles, all around the front of the theater, growing thicker and sprouting wide, dark green leaves as they travelled. Spike could see a few people towards the front of the theater reach out and touch the greenery, startled and dazzled by the tremendous display of magic.

He felt something slither by his foot, and looked down just as one of the vines passed his seat and started to coil around Charlie's right leg, tightening as it climbed.

"Oh, fuck no!" she hissed quietly, trying to step on it with her free foot and yank it off. "This is so not what I signed on for."

It took all of Spike's restraint not to roll his eyes. "Bloody well knew what you were signing on for! Saw what he could do at the cabin. Should've been prepared for a bleedin' spectacle."

"Yeah, I totally had it figured that Bleakgrave was going to turn the theater into a real life version of the Jungle Book!" She gave him a sarcastic smile as she lashed out at the unwelcome addition to her outfit, struggling to pull the vine off. "I even tried to stick a machete into my clutch earlier but it didn't fit."

With the careless grace of a cat that would be at home in the current surroundings, Spike reached forward and slid his hands down the smooth skin of her bare leg. "Should've brought something other than that teensy excuse for a handbag, luv," he said, grabbing the vine and snapping it in half. He met her eyes and gave a provocative quirk of his brow, "since you're so eager to be stickin' big things in it."

He became mesmerized, watching Charlie's eyes flash with desire as she scrutinized him in the semi-darkness, so much so that he didn't feel the vines retract or disappear or ever figure out what happened to them. He just knew that Bleakgrave had started speaking again, and when he looked up again to watch, all of the creeping plants were gone.

"And on the subject of life and death, there's a very special person in the audience today that I'd like to introduce you to. I haven't known her very long, but she's recently been dealt the misfortune of losing someone very close to her, a most heinous demise. And the last time I talked with her, we had a very interesting conversation about her family. She's quite a girl, really."

Spike's stomach began to sink, which only worsened when he felt Charlie's hand slip over the armrest and clasp his own hand in a death grip.

"In fact, I'd like to invite her up here so everyone can meet her. Would you all like that?" Bleakgrave asked the audience, which responded in a chorus of assent.

"Only three rows from the exit. You duck out when I say go, and I'll fend him off," Spike murmured to her, wondering if there was even a chance in hell for him to do so.


	19. Chapter 19- Into the Fire, Part 2

Previously... _"In fact, I'd like to invite her up here so everyone can meet her. Would you all like that?" Bleakgrave asked the audience, which responded in a chorus of assent._

 _"Only three rows from the exit. You duck out when I say go, and I'll fend him off," Spike murmured to her, wondering if there was even a chance in hell for him to do so._

* * *

Charlie grabbed his jacket sleeve, crumpling the heavy fabric with an iron grasp. "No! we're both leaving, I don't want to hear any other-"

"Kaitlyn, darling, will you come up on stage?" Bleakgrave's voice reverberated off the theater walls, filling it with omnipresent sound, and both vampires swiveled their heads towards the stage in shocked silence.

"Didn't see that one comin'," Spike muttered, both surprised and very relieved that the magician didn't seem to have psychic powers on top of the rest of his myriad abilities.

A young girl of about six or so, her dark hair in ribboned pigtails, shuffled up onto the stage and stood hesitantly next to Bleakgrave. The man put a gentle arm around her shoulder, as though she were a fragile doll, and turned the girl so she was facing the audience. Charlie's grip on Spike's hand didn't ease up, and his stomach soured with a sense of foreboding.

"Kaitlyn, poor child, has recently lost her mother," Bleakgrave announced, shaking his head dolefully. The girl stared at the floor, unmoving, as her eyes welled with tears. "Hit and killed in a drunk driving accident, leaving behind a grieving husband and three young children. Tragic, yes?"

The audience murmured in a saddened harmony of agreement.

Bleakgrave turned back to the girl and knelt down beside her, stroking her arm the way parent or a close family friend might do. "What would you like more than anything? Would you like to see your mommy one more time?"

Kaitlyn nodded, brushing away the teardrops that were streaming down her cheeks.

"But what if we could do more… what if you could just have your mommy back, permanently?" Bleakgrave asked, pursing his lips as he thought about it, "Just as she was? Healthy and alive and so happy to be with you again?"

As the words left the magician's mouth, the little girl stared at him, wide eyed, dumbfounded, and more than a little hopeful.

Bleakgrave smiled indulgently at her, then turned his attention towards the theater goers. "What do you think audience, should we bring back Kaitlyn's mom?" There was a raucous agreement, so Bleakgrave stepped away from the child and began to work his magic.

"Son of a bitch. Can he _actually_ do that?" Charlie whispered harshly in Spike's ear.

"Suppose we're about to find out," he replied, frowning at the scene playing out before him. The magical ability to throw someone against a wall or grow a forest of plants, while not exactly commonplace, wasn't unheard of. But bringing the dead back to life with a couple of words and a simple flick of a wrist? That went far beyond the realm of Normaltown. From what Spike knew of magic, that went all the way Nevertown.

Bleakgrave began to chant words in a language that Spike had never heard before, and he watched with troubled fascination as twin balls of warm energy began to grow from the magician's hands. After a moment, the light floated upwards as if made of helium, and began to rotate counter clockwise, accelerating in speed until it blurred into one round, glowing mass.

The spinning magic began to stretch as Bleakgrave chanted, becoming the general length of a person, and then it began to push and tuck itself inward to become even more human shaped. After a few more bouts of chanting, Bleakgrave slapped his hands together and the light lowered itself to the ground as it faded. A hushed silence fell over the crowd, as it solidified into the form of a fully dressed soccer mom, complete with a puffy orange vest and grey sweatpants.

The woman sat up and looked around, apparently confused by the venue. Her disorientation was only momentary, replaced by pure stupification when the little girl on stage squealed the word "mommy" and dashed over to the woman, bounding into her lap and latching her small arms around the woman's waist. It only took a second for the girl's mother to come to some sort of understanding of the circumstances, enfolding the child in her arms and joyfully sobbing in a display that made a long-lost family reunion on Oprah look like a cheesy sitcom.

There wasn't a dry eye in the audience after that.

"This is awful. They love him…" Charlie whispered to Spike, over the noise of the cheers and applause, and the obnoxious sound of the man next to her who was blowing his nose into a handkerchief. "They think he's some benevolent, magical hero and they don't even know. The things he's done… How many people were murdered in order for that one woman to live again?" Charlie looked as though she was ready to shed some tears as well, though Spike assumed it had little to do with the emotional mother-daughter homecoming.

"Come on, pet. Gotta plan," he whispered back, grabbing her hand in the darkness and pulling her past the row of ovation-giving attendees, towards the exit.

"Where are we going?" she asked quietly, eyes readjusting to the brighter lights in the theater's foyer. There were a few guests milling about, several people were getting wine from the concession stand and a couple was arguing with the ticket manager, but all in all, everyone seemed to be firmly entrenched in front of the stage.

"Been here before, you know," he said, glancing in either direction before pulling her through an unmarked door near the bathrooms, "Thing about old landmarks is they don't change much. Bettin' the private dressin' rooms are still in the same place."

"Uh… you want to break into his room? Forgive me while I go consult the _Idiot's Guide to Getting Us Killed_. Killed-er. Deader? Dusted."

"That pissant's prolly gonna be on stage until Atlas is done holdin' up the soddin' sky. Plenty of time to pop in, have a quick look at Bleak's private quarters, and be out before he's finished puttin' the wool over everyone's eyes."

She looked less than convinced. "Alright, but I'm going on record as not being a fan of this idea."

"Seem to remember voicin' an opinion about you not comin' at all, pet. Not that I'd expect you'd ever listen," Spike said, as they arrived at a steel door at the end of the corridor. He chuckled, reaching for the door handle, "Ponce's so sure he's invincible he didn't bother to put a guard at the door to the dressin' room hall." With a barely suppressed howl of pain, he snatched his hand back as a bolt of electricity went racing up his arm.

"Because he enchanted the door handle. Since he's magic like that," Charlie said dryly, hands on her hips. "You okay?"

"Be better once that wanker is six feet under," Spike growled. "How 'bout you give it a go, Miss I Can Do Magic."

"Watch and learn, Spike." She rubbed her palms together, raised her hands towards the doorknob, and whispered "recludam".

Nothing happened.

She frowned and inspected her hands, clenching and unclenching them, then tried again, yielding the same results. "I don't understand. There are four spells I can do, and I don't even feel the energy coming out of my hands. What the hell? I've got nothing..."

"Glad you're riskin' your neck to come along. Real asset to the team, Charlie Girl."

"Maybe you should try turning the knob again, see if it still feels the same," she said testily.

"Nah. Just remembered somethin'. Gotta better plan." He turned around and took a hallway that branched left instead of returning to the foyer, Charlie following just behind him. They walked a few minutes before Spike slowed down, opening doors and trying to remember which room he needed. After a few failed attempts, he found the right one. It was now being used as a storage; tall portable fans, an abundance of medieval costumes, and various props from western-themed show of some sort now cluttered up the space.

Spike shoved aside a giant stuffed horse to get to the wall behind it, and began prodding at moulding until there was an audible click, and a section of the wall swung open to reveal an unlit passageway.

Charlie eyed it warily. "Should I ask?"

"Me, Dru, Angelus and his sire attended this theater often, we did. Good feedin' with the added bonus of box seats if we ate the right meal. Ticket taker was a vamp, shared a drink or two with him, and he'd hide the bodies in here."

"Charming. I hope there's more to this than a sticky walk down serial killer lane."

Spike grinned at her, took her hand again, and stepped into the dark. "Got curious one night, wandered down the pass way, and found it led to a very interestin' place."

"I'm not going to be impressed unless it's the dressing rooms."

"Prepare to be impressed then," he said, stopping at the end of the passage and pressing his ear to the wall. There were no sounds coming from inside, and he pushed the wall with his palm. It groaned in protest, clearly unused for decades, and swung open into a space the size of a closet. One whole side looked to be made of glass, and through it, an extravagant dressing room could be seen.

Spike knew there was only one dressing room that someone like Bleakgrave would reserve for his own personal use. The largest, most opulent of all the rooms, the one given to past stars of the opera, the prima ballerinas, the award-winning actors, would most certainly be his.

The room dripped with money. The wall coverings, the floor, the upholstery, were all covered in a layer of crimson velvet, and paintings of dancers in gilded picture frames hung on every wall. The entire right side of the room was littered with flower arrangements and gifts from fans, though Spike was fairly certain that the magician had conjured them up for himself. The general public didn't even know who the hell Bleakgrave was until a day ago.

"Titanic much?" Charlie asked hushedly, surveying the richly decorated room through the glass. "The irony isn't lost on me though, since you're clearly trying to back the boat up and hit the iceberg a second time. When Bleakgrave comes in and finds us hanging out behind a window, I call dibs on the lifeboat."

"Titanic had class, pet. Dressin' room's a gaudy knock-off. One-way mirror, this is. We can see out, no one sees in, safe as houses."

"Under most circumstances, the knowledge that someone put a secret one-way mirror in a dressing room would be all sorts of disgusting, but I actually feel a whole lot better now. So what's the plan?"

"We stick it out until intermission. See what Bleaks is all about behind closed doors."

"Observe and report. Yeah, I'm down with that. And hopefully intermission is soon because these shoes are killing me. In the figurative sense."

She was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and he wordlessly turned her around and pulled her close to lean against his chest, taking some of the the pressure off her feet. While the one-way mirror would hypothetically keep them hidden, he didn't want to chance being seen due to excessive movement behind it. Without entirely meaning to, his nose ended up just behind her ear, and he contentedly inhaled the scent of her hair.

"I could just take my shoes off, you know," she whispered.

"Sure. If you feel like walkin' on mouse shit and spider corpses with your toes all starkers, be my guest."

"On second thought, this is fine."

It was more than fine, Spike thought idly. The curve of her buttocks was pressing into his groin in just the right way, and he fought his libido not to becomes as instantly aroused as a hormonal teenage boy.

"Sooo… this is basically a closet. Closet sized and tiny, and how long do you think it will be until intermission?" She murmured after a few moments had passed, fidgeting slightly against him as she adjusted her stance.

He gave up fighting off his impulses when a surge of friction against his increasingly tight pants sent a fresh wave of desire washing over him. "Bored already? Know a few ways to keep occupied in tight spaces, luv. All you have to do is ask," he whispered, lips brushing her ear. She seemed to melt into him even more, and he slid his hand down her side, rubbing little circles on her hip with his thumb.

"If your plan was play Seven Minutes in Heaven, I would pick every other closet that exists over this-." Her voice was cut off as Spike slipped a hand over her mouth, straining to hear the footsteps just outside the door to the dressing room. He felt her whole body tense as the door opened up, and Bleakgrave walked in with his small demon counterpart.

"-so long since I've felt that way, Hodges," Bleakgrave was saying. "It's elating. Exhilarating. I could do this every night. Go get me a mineral water."

"Of course, sir. Anything else?"

"Put it in a glass with ice and a lemon wedge. And get me one of those brightly colored twisted tubes I saw people drinking with at the concession stand."

"Certainly, sir. I'll return forthwith," Hodges said with a bow of the head, hastily exiting the room.

Spike lowered his hand from Charlie's mouth, and they both watched anxiously as Bleakgrave began whistling to himself, walking about the room, and cracking the tension out of his neck. He stopped at the mountain of flowers and began picking through the various notes and cards, scanning a few of them and smiling blithely at the written contents. After reading half a dozen such tokens, he walked away from the gifts and swapped his jacket out for an intricately embellished one of gold brocade and wine colored sateen that had been hanging on an ornate coat rack.

Without warning, Bleakgrave stepped forward towards the the two way mirror, leaning in and squinting his eyes in a way that made Spike abruptly question the opacity of the glass. He didn't move a muscle, didn't even blink, just held on to Charlie who was standing just as rigidly still. Bleakgrave moved his face even closer to the glass, finally baring his teeth and picking a piece of something green out from between his molars. Spike's eyes fluttered shut in a moment of relief.

The magician moved away from the mirror, and pulled a shoebox sized wooden container out from behind the pile of vases and flowers, laying it on an upholstered chair. Spike could see that the box was weathered and rustically carved, perhaps painted at one point in time but only a few chips of teal and coral paint remained to suggest it. Hodges came walking back in, delicately holding Bleakgrave's glass of mineral water.

"Just set it on the table, Hodges."

"Very good, sir."

"I'll be needing a replenishment in a moment, so when I'm finished, I'll put the usual enchantment on the box. Store it safely when the show's over. Nobody but you or me touches it, understand? It's fully soul-loaded. And I want it placed in the Peace Salon before we move, somewhere central, on display. I've always enjoyed the idea of hiding my most prized possessions in plain sight. Makes everyone else seem as stupid as they actually are."

"It shall be done, just as you've asked," the demon said, pausing by the door.

"Okay, you can go now, go go go," the magician said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let my special lady friend know that I'll be back soon, and then go fix the lighting issue. You'd think at a venue like this they'd have something as simple as spotlights under control. It's ridiculous to think I'd waste my magic on something as lowly as lightbulb repair."

Hodges inclined his head respectfully and ambled back out the door. Alone again, the magician walked over to the box he'd procured, picked it up, and placed it on the lit vanity table. Running his hands lovingly over worn exterior and opening the lid, he placed his fingertips inside of the box and began to chant. Bleakgrave's fingers began glowing as he spoke a string of obsolete words aloud. The glow extended up his wrists and under his sleeves, and after a moment Spike could see the magician's face had the same luminous quality as his hands.

As abruptly as he had started, Bleakgraved stopped chanting and his skin faded back to its normal color. With the contented sigh of a man who'd just finished his last bite of a home cooked pot roast, he flipped the box shut, and muttered a word that Spike didn't understand.

The box stretched taller and the color began to leach out of it, slowly morphing into a white, ivory veined marble bust that looked suspiciously like Bleakgrave himself. Content with the outcome, the magician raked a hand through his hair, took a few sips of water from the neon pink curly straw that was sticking out of his mineral water, and then left the room singing the tune he'd been whistling earlier.

It took a few minutes for Spike to feel they were safe enough to speak again, and he relaxed his hold on Charlie.

"So he has to store the souls… he must not be able to have more than a few inside of him at a time." She stared interestedly at the camouflaged box, brow creased in thought.

"Glad the sod's got at least one achilles heel," Spike said, running a finger along the frame of the hidden mirror.

"I want to ask what you're doing, but I don't think I want to know the answer."

"Doin' what I do best," he said, as his finger made contact with a latch and the mirror pivoted stiffly open into the room.

"You're gonna go rifle through his underwear drawer, take the cutest pair for your own personal collection?"

"Suppose I earned that one," Spike snorted, as he stepped lightly onto the lacquered wood floor. Charlie cautiously stepped in behind him, leaving only a tiny crack as she pushed the mirror back to its original position.

"Bleaks would have a mighty bad day if his personal soul bank goes missin', wouldn't you say?" Spike contemplated aloud, as he studied the transformed magical box. Bleakgrave's face stared blankly back at him, pale and glossy, and barely less frightening made of stone.

"Not as bad as the one I had when I met him, but I'm not picky about retribution," Charlie conceded. "Let it come early and come often."

"If he doesn't have access to his supply, there'll be a limit on his mojo. Wheels will fall off his Magical Mystery Tour, he'll get sloppy, weak… perfect time to swoop in and deal with him."

"I'm sold. Are we sticking with our usual theme of thievery?" She gave him a crooked smile.

"The very one," Spike answered with a grin, and wandered over to the table that displayed Bleakgrave's sculpture. He had just wrapped his hands around the busts neck, happily noting that he was not being magically electrocuted by it, when a shuffling noise outside the door froze him in his tracks.

Two things happened, almost at the same time. The first, the handle on the door to the hallway began to turn, and Spike felt a fast rush of adrenaline and fear drive into him. There was no way they'd make it back behind the mirror before the door opened all the way. The second thing, also driving into him, was Charlie, shoving his whole body against the wall, and latching on to his lips with her own. He plunged in a strange state of absolute terror and a bottomless pit of lust as her tongue found its way into his mouth.

The door opened all the way and Hodges entered, carrying yet another enormous flower arrangement.

"Ummmm…." the short demon began, shoving the floral design onto a side table. He seemed half a second away from rushing out to get assistance. Presumably from Bleakgrave himself.

Charlie pulled away from Spike's mouth, and gave the demon a horrified look. "Oh god. Oh, I'm so sorry! We just… you know, we thought these were all empty rooms, but then I saw this one, and all the flowers! So romantic, and we just got carried away…"

Hodges turned back, crinkling his brow at the two intruders. "I'm sorry, you came down here… why?"

She smoothed her dress out, pouting irritatedly at Spike. "I'm so embarrassed. You always do this. Can't wait until we get home, need to find somewhere private so you can satisfy your… urges."

Spike caught on quickly, and it wasn't a hard role to act. Hell, it really wasn't a role at all. "Can't blame a bloke for havin' dirty thoughts when you're wearin' a dress that would be less revealin' if it were put on with a paint roller." His gaze caressed her every curve, and he crept a hand down her backside. "Course gettin' you outta that dress later's gonna be worth havin' to keep my hands in my pockets all night. First thing I'm gonna do when we get home is slip my fingers-"

The demon cleared his throat, still looking at them suspiciously. "This is a restricted area, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you both to leave. You can't go wandering about unescorted, so I'll show you to the door, but then you should return to your seats. The second act has already started."

"We're missing the second act?!" Charlie cried, glaring at Spike in a very believable way as she stomped out the door that the demon was holding open. "You told me we still had a half hour!"

The demon shut the door behind them and began to walk with them in the general direction of the foyer.

"Wouldn't've cared if we'd missed the whole thing, if we'd gotten a few more minutes to ourselves. No matter though, pet. Have you singin' a tune of a different sort when we get home." He kept his hand firmly planted on her posterior as they moved down the hallway.

As they exited into the foyer, the demon still had his eyes narrowed distrustfully at the two of them, and Spike took the opportunity to push the act a little further, tilting Charlie's chin up and giving her a kiss on the mouth that bordered on indecency for being in public. The demon made a disgusted sound as he walked away.

"Close call," Charlie murmured.

Spike eyed Hodge's receding figure as he strolled down the hallway that led to the stage. "That was some bloody quick thinkin'."

"I figured we could fool pretty much anyone as long as it wasn't Bleakgrave."

"And if it had been Bleakgrave?"

"Then at least I'd enjoy my final moments on Earth."

"And now what? Feel like pushin' our luck a bit more and goin' back inside?" It was the very last thing Spike wanted to do, but he didn't want to be the one to make that call.

"Absolutely not," she said, glancing darkly at the theater entrance, "Let's get out of here."

"Where to, luv? Sure there's a few bars within walkin' distance."

She didn't say anything when her eyes connected with his, but he knew the look, could see the unspoken need. He cocked a dark eyebrow, giving her a flirtatious, hopeful smirk. "Or out of the magical forest and back to the hotel, perhaps…"

"I mean, only if you wa-" she began, but Spike cut her off with his mouth, pushing her soundlessly against one of the lobby's marble pillars.

"Cab?" she asked, breaking away from his kiss after a moment, gasping as his lips continued their assault down the side of her neck.

"Cab," he agreed, practically dragging her out the ornate doors and onto the street, raising an arm to hail a taxi as he kept his arm firmly cemented around her.

* * *

 _A/N: No worries, Guest, it's coming!_


	20. Chapter 20- Headlights

A multitude of taxis were lined up in a yellow row across the street from the theater, and tires squealed as two of them abandoned the configuration in an attempt to win the fare. Driver number two was desperate enough to pull recklessly in front of the leading cab, uncaring of the scant inch between the two vehicles as he braked in front of the couple.

Spike might have felt a smidgen sorry for the winning driver if he'd had any bit of conscience. In the semi-privacy of the back seat, he pulled out every sensual tactic he knew, sliding his fingers under and up Charlie's dress to trail her inner thigh, tantalizingly close to where he knew she wanted his hand to be. She played the game as well as he did, running her hand seductively back and forth along the lower edge of his belt. He began to fear for the strength of his zipper.

Though he kept his hands in check, his tongue explored her mouth with a thoroughness that had the flustered cabbie turning up the radio and stepping generously on the gas pedal. Charlie dropped an uncounted wad of cash into the driver's lap when they screeched to a halt outside the Hyperion, and they were both inside the hotel before the man could even bid them goodnight.

Cordelia was snoring quietly, cheek ungracefully flattened on top of a pile of papers on the front desk as they raced by on the way to their way up the stairs, though neither of them gave their surroundings much notice.

The room key dropped out of Charlie's hands twice as they stood outside their door. The first time, her hands were trembling. The second time, Spike had needed to feel her lips on his again, and it slipped out of her fingers as she wound her hands around him. He snatched the key off the floor and had the door open faster than a starving lion chasing after a gazelle.

Shutting the door with his foot, he tried to unbutton her dress quickly, twisting one button at a time through its slitted opening. He only made it through half the necessary length before he grew impatient, yanking at the fabric until the buttons either pulled through or broke off entirely, scattering onto the floor. The back finally lay open, a v-shaped expanse of naked flesh framed by green silk, and he paused briefly to enjoy the inviting sight.

He slid his hands down her shoulders, pushing the dress downward until it dropped on its own accord, an iridescent puddle of verdant fabric against the grayish carpet of the floor. She leaned back against him, her body pliantly molding with his, and his hands drifted over to stroke her bare breasts, eliciting a needy groan of desire from her lips.

"Never wanted somethin' so much, luv. Never knew it could feel like this, the wantin'. Feel it in my bones, in my blood," he rumbled into her ear.

She turned around, and caressed his cheek, running a finger along the scar that crossed his brow, then leaned forward to bestow it with a soft press of her lips.

"Say you feel it too," he pleaded, "Your blood screamin' out for mine."

"I feel it," she affirmed, kicking off her shoes, "it wasn't always as strong as this, but I felt it before too…" She planted a fierce kiss on his lips, and unbuttoned the front of his shirt with as much impatience as he felt, tugging the sleeves down his arms and flinging it haphazardly towards the bed.

"Before?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her and capturing her lips again, savoring the feel of her plush, luscious mouth against his own.

"Before you turned me. When I first met you, actually… never would have admitted it, but hell if I didn't want you then too."

He rewarded her with a boyish smile before licking and nibbling his way from her ear to her collarbone, while she took a single, wild breath, weaving her fingers against his head as though she were trying to anchor herself to him. Her legs wrapped around his slim hips, shamelessly rubbing herself against his pelvis as he hoisted her up, carrying her to the bed and releasing her atop the indigo cotton covering.

Dipping a finger under the elastic of her flimsy lace underwear, he drew it down her legs with an excruciating slowness, inclining his head to the sensitive flesh behind her knee and gliding his lips along her skin until he reached the juncture of her thighs. The scent had been teasing him for hours, goading him and guiding him to the x on the treasure map, his reward for figuring out the pathway there. He slipped his tongue inside her, taste as sweet as her blood had been, and she let out a raw, delicious moan that made him yearn to hear it over and over.

Experimenting, he ravaged her with his mouth and learned what made her shudder and what made her legs quiver in pleasure, almost reaching his own release at the noise she made when he thrust a finger inside of her.

"So wet, and a taste of heaven," he murmured.

"Fuck, I need you," was all she could reply, as she reached to unbuckle his belt and deprive him of the rest of his clothing, inhaling sharply as she took in the lean muscle and ivory skin, fully displayed for carnal purposes.

He settled himself betwixt her legs, caressing her side as he felt her fingers drift down the length of his spine and alight on his buttocks, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Spike sought her eyes, and she returned his gaze, begging him, daring him to push himself inside. Accepting the wordless challenge, he slid into her with one deep, languid stroke, and then another, hissing with gratification as she gasped and writhed eagerly against him.

"Easy, luv," he said, a wicked gleam in his eye as he held her hips to the bed. She whimpered in frustration. "Got some plans, see. Hours and hours until we have to leave these sheets, and I've got a fortnight's worth of ideas."

Her voice came out heated and amused, thick with desire. "There you go, calling all the shots again. And it isn't your bed this time. This is neutral territory."

"Bossy bint." With one fluid movement, he had her astride him, groaning with intense satisfaction as she sunk down onto his length. He reached up to palm her breasts, and she arched her back, pushing her chest into his inquisitive hands, all the while moving up and down in a rhythm that both tortured and careened him into a euphoric sensual hunger.

Their bodies transformed into a tangle of limbs, pulling, throbbing, clutching at eachother maddeningly, and he lost awareness of where he ended and she began. He took her every way he could think of, every way he had already daydreamed of. Her fingernails raked over the muscle and sinew of his back as he pressed his teeth into her shoulder, suppressing lingering moans and grunts of pure arousal.

Everything else seemed to fade away. Velvet heat coiled between his legs until he was obliterated, her muscles blissfully convulsing around his hardness as he cried out in ecstasy, spilling himself inside of her.

She collapsed onto his chest, rubbing her cheek against his skin as he trailed his fingertips in lazy patterns over her back. He should have felt sated, but there was a fire in his blood already beginning to stir again.

"That was… wow. Can't. Words."

"Oh, little kitten," he said, with a low growl in his throat and a smile on his lips as he pulled himself out of her, his hands descending to fill the void. "We've only begun."

* * *

"This must be what jello feels like." Hours had passed, and Charlie was tangled in the wrinkled navy sheets, letting out little sighs of exhausted satisfaction. "Neither solid nor liquid. Just a pile of goo. I think I still have limbs, but I can't be bothered to check."

"Mmmm… still there." Spike drew his arms around her, pulling her back tightly against the hard lines of his chest and running his hands over her arms and legs, and other places that didn't need checking. Her hair was mussed, and she looked thoroughly, thoroughly debauched. Spike decided it was his favorite version of her, and one he intended on creating as often as possible.

"How did this not happen weeks ago?" she asked, turning her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye, "And how the hell are you so good at this?"

He took advantage of her turned head to gently capture her earlobe between his teeth, alternating skillfully between sucking and nipping at her skin. "Have it down to a fine art, pet. Had a whole century to hone my expertise."

"Oh my god," she groaned, stifling a laugh. "I just slept with a 146 year old. There's gotta be some laws against a 120 year age difference."

"Robbin' the cradle, am I?"

"More like you bought a cradle, watched it get handed down for five or six generations, and then robbed it." She rolled over to face him, a smug grin on her face.

"Pipe down, Lolita. Weren't complainin' 'bout it twenty minutes ago," Spike protested, though any indignance he might have felt melted cleanly away at the sight of her breasts, curving enticingly above the sheets.

She seemed to read his lascivious thoughts. "Couldn't complain because my mouth was otherwise engaged."

His eyes glittered dangerously as he slid his forefinger past her lips, groaning as she ran the tip of her tongue along its underside. "Wanna engage it again?" he asked.

Giving his palm a soft kiss, Charlie propped herself up on her elbows and squinted at the clock on the nightstand, sighing as she assessed the time. "More than you know. But we were supposed to have started driving home an hour and a half ago."

"So we're gonna be late no matter if we leave now or in another three hours." And, he reasoned, they would only be late if they actually showed up at the Magic Box, since forgoing the trip to spend the next week in bed would constitute as being AWOL, not tardy. Absenteeism sounded positively rapturous.

"We said we'd be back by 8," she reminded him.

"And I'm evil. Hafta break the occasional promise here and there, else I'll lose my credibility."

"You're like the little devil that sits on my shoulder, you know that? And it's not really fair 'cause there's no little angel version of you to balance it out." She shifted her head to the side, thinking about it, "Which is a shame since you'd look delectable in a toga."

"Never been one to turn down roleplay, luv," he said, though his mind began to drift elsewhere. At the mention of the word angel, Spike had a sudden overwhelming desire to get back on the road and as far away from Los Angeles as possible. As much pleasure as he got from the knowledge that he'd just spent hours defiling his grandsire's sheets, he really didn't want to run into the older vampire. "Suppose we can hit the road, don't want the slayer breathin' down my neck due to unexcused loitering."

She grabbed Spike's dress shirt off the headboard and slipped into it, only fastening a few of the buttons before crawling out of bed. "Well, if we leave in the next half hour, and you drive as fast as you did getting here, we won't be _that_ late. Though even if we are, we have some useful information on Bleakgrave, which will make Buffy happy. And bonus, we didn't get killed." She meandered into the bathroom, emerging a moment later with her zipped pouch of toiletries, and tossing it into her bag.

"Yeah, sure she'll be over the bloody moon 'bout that part. Slayer's been tryin' to dust me for years," he said, following Charlie with his eyes as she hastily collected the clothing she'd worn the day before, stacking it in a pile before inspecting the rest of the room for anything else that needed packing.

She picked up the swath of green silk that was lying in a tattered heap on the floor. "Hey, Houston? We have a bit of a problem."

* * *

"So, um… there was a little snafu with the dress…" Charlie said, more than a little flustered as she laid it on the reception desk where Cordelia was filling out paperwork. It had taken more time to gather the remnants of the upscale outfit than it had taken the two vampires to get dressed, finish packing, and get downstairs to the hotel lobby.

Guiltily, Charlie pulled a handful of loose buttons out of her pocket, and laid them in a pile next to the fabric, cringing as one of them rolled away from the rest and bounced onto the carpet by Cordelia's foot.

"Oh. Wow. What the hell attacked you?" Cordelia asked, staring bewilderedly at the damaged garment.

"He came at me from behind... felt like he had six arms. Just grabbed the back of my dress, and see ya later, buttons."

"And you said, _hey, big bad monster, can you stop with the attacks for a sec while I pick these up off the floor_?" Cordelia asked, narrowing her eyes at Charlie in perplexion.

"Well, to be fair, by the time I collected them, the monster was, um…" Charlie paused, glancing at Spike for assistance.

"Dead," he finished with a grin.

"Well, thank goodness for that." Cordelia threw her pen onto the desk, and leaned back in her chair. "I'm telling you, you think Sunnydale is bad with all the demons and monsters and stuff? L.A. is just as bad but with smog. Which makes it worse. Did last night go okay?"

"Yeah, totally fine," Charlie answered quickly.

"Went off with a bang, I'd say. Learned a whole slew of things I've been wantin' to know for weeks. Plenty of sights that'll stick with us, loads of physical action… can't wait to get home and go over all the details." Spike had trouble keeping a straight face as Charlie sent a startled glance in his direction.

There was a long, awkward silence before Cordelia spoke. "Alrighty, glad the theater espionage was a success. Well, say hi to everyone for me, I guess."

As they said their goodbyes and exited the hotel, Spike was certain he heard the woman exasperatedly mutter "vampires".

Outside, the sky had just darkened to a dusky shade of azure, set liberally with the promise of pale yellow stars. A cool breeze drifted by, carrying with it a scent that reminded Spike of betrayal, humiliation, and grungy European backstreets, so it was no surprise when he heard footsteps behind him. Spike didn't bother to turn around before addressing him. "Ah. Couldn't let us hit the road without bidding us a sweet farewell, I see. Decided to meet the latest of our line?"

Sure enough, when Spike did finally turn around, there was Angel, dark and looming like a carrion vulture at the front gates of the Hyperion.

"Uh, hey? Is there something you forgot to tell me? What line?" Charlie asked, tartly directing her question at the bleach blond vampire standing next to her.

Spike put a possessive arm around her and flashed Angel an icy smile, "Charlie Girl, meet the big, broodin' cheese of this fine establishment, the perpetual thorn in my side, and oh yeah, your great grandsire. You can call him grandpops, or Fluffy McMopeyface. I find that he responds both with equal amounts of displeasure."

As if to prove his point, Angel glowered back at him. "I don't know what you're playing at, Spike, but when I figure it out, I will find you and put an end to it."

"So do we actually descend from a long, dignified line of McMopeyfaces or is this just the part where you guys exchange insults and threats for a few minutes? I can go wait in the car if you think this will take a while." Charlie cast an unimpressed glance between the two of them, finally arching a brow as Angel looked apologetically in her direction.

"Sorry. There's a history between Spike and I, none of that was directed at you. I'm Angel. Buffy told me about you, and the whole soul thing. You should know, I have one too." It was the puppy-dog stare directed at Charlie that threw Spike into a searing pit of annoyance.

"Right. Let's play the Haves and the Have Nots. As long as we're playing, _I_ have the burning desire to get into the car and drive far, far away, where I don't have to see this pathetic display of puffery. Charlie, think we should be goin' about now, yeah? What with the being late and all?"

"Yeah, probably. Duty calls. Thanks for the room, Angel," Charlie said, throwing her bag through the open window into the back seat of the DeSoto.

"Of course," Angel responded, "And, I know Buffy needs you right now, but once it's over, if you ever want to talk or need a place to crash, the hotel's always open. You don't need to walk the path alone."

Spike knew he should have just driven off into the night, but every word out of Angel's mouth was a massive irritation, begging to be scratched apart. " _Don't need to walk_ … do you hear yourself, you gormless clot? You sound like a bloody brochure for a drug-addicted homeless youth shelter."

"Spike, you don't understand what it's like," Angel sighed, uncomfortably shuffling his foot against the pavement, "A vampire with a soul doesn't fit in with humans or the undead, you have one foot on either side. It's confusing at best, but mostly it's just dangerous, and it never hurts to have allies."

"Oh, boo hoo. Never thought I'd say it, but I miss Angelus. Only thing he ever whined about was slim pickin's for meal choices 'round the summer holidays."

"Guys, maybe we should stick to the real issue at hand right now, and save the… whatever else is going on for later," Charlie interjected.

"Yeah, you're right. So what did you learn about the magician at the show?" Angel asked.

"Sorry, Sally. You're not on the team. Think we have all the bases covered with the Slayer and her Slayerettes. Also, we have Wonder Bread, Buffy's new boy toy. Heard about him? Military type, all sorts of stamina. Might even save some of that endurance for the occasional job." The satisfaction Spike gleaned from seeing the muscles in the older vampire's jaw tighten was worth the entire annoying conversation.

"If this magician-"

"Bleakgrave." Spike interrupted, determined to make his grandsire seem as incompetent as possible.

"If _Bleakgrave_ decides to stick it out in my city, you'd best believe I'll be dealing with him. And if you're not going to tell me, then I'll call Buffy later and she'll fill me in."

" _Your city_? When'd you get elected you ponce? Nobody in this town knows who the bloody hell you are, and if they did, you'd be facin' the morning sunrise surrounded by a mob of pitchfork-wielding, cross-wearin'-"

"-Okay, we're gonna go now," Charlie said, grabbing Spike by the lapels of his jacket and moving towards the DeSoto. "Spike, let's do that thing you do where you drive the car. Angel, nice meeting you."

"Likewise."

It wasn't until Spike saw the lights of the Los Angeles skyline recede into one distant, blurry shape behind the car that he stopped wanting to snap the steering wheel in half. He took a deep breath for the comfort of it, and cleared his mind of all thoughts of Angel.

"You forgot to mention that grandpops is kinda hot."

Spike accidentally swerved over the highway's yellow line, and the motorcyclist behind him flew by, giving him the middle finger. "Oi! Should I turn this car around, let you have a go at him?"

"Jeez. Look at you, all competitive and grouchy," she said, poking him in the arm, "Don't worry. He may be hot, but he's lacking a little in the personality department. And besides, I happen to like you."

"Glad to hear it," he sulked.

"What's your deal with him, anyway? He steal your ex girlfriend or something?"

Spike shot her a look of consternation, and the teasing smile slipped off her face.

"Oh. Sorry…"

He shrugged, passing a car that was only driving twenty over the speed limit. "Ancient baggage, that. Dru loved me, I think, but Angel was her sire. There was no one more important to her and he played her like a fiddle, enjoyed torturin' me with it, as one of the most cruel and depraved vamps in the history books would. Now that he's on the side of good, he looks down on any soulless creature, even though most aren't half the evil bastard he was."

A thoughtful silence filled the car, and Spike wondered what was going on in her head. "That doesn't seem at all fair," she said finally.

"Isn't," he huffed, "Hence the seething hatred."

"Want me to make him breakfast next time?"

"Abso-bleedin'-loutely not! Has enough people grovelin' at his feet, no amount of warmin' up his bag o'blood in the micro is gonna change his _less-unholier-than-thou_ attitude."

"I meant eat him."

"Oh." Spike considered it, wondering how fast they'd have to get out of town to avoid being staked by Buffy. "Would you?"

"Eh, not really," she shrugged, "Just trying to make you feel better. I think the soul-having kinda kills the delectability quotient. On a scale of one to you, he's about a three."

"You're still thinkin' of me as dinner, then?" he asked. The thought that he had spent an entire day and evening naked-cuddling with a natural predator of soulless demons crossed his mind, but he figured that if he hadn't been bit as of yet, he had little to be apprehensive about.

"Never thought of you like that, you're not just some random demon. It'd be like having a pet pig… you'd still eat meat, maybe even the occasional hot dog, but you wouldn't want to slaughter the animal you cared about, right?"

"Callin' me a pig, now?" came his petulant reply.

"Well, I mean, if the shoe fits…" she said seriously, then caught his eye, unable to resist a little smirk at his defensiveness. "Kidding. They're super cute. Have those soft little noses…" She trailed off, yawning into her fist.

"You look like you're ready to drop, luv."

She smiled to herself. "Well, I had a long night. And day. Mind if I sleep the rest of the way home?"

"Course not. Take a kip, wake you when we're there." His heart would have lurched if it could have, at her labeling the crypt as home. And when she rested her head on his shoulder, snuggling closer as he put his arm around her, he thought his heart might actually start beating again.

He took his time driving, sticking to the middle lane in the highway and taking the scenic route once they were within range of Sunnydale. It was something he typically never did, but he was more relaxed and content than he'd been in decades, and wanted to stretch out the brief respite for as long as he could. The romantic in him loved the closeness, the simple luxury of bodily contact in a quiet space, and so he was heartened by a long line of traffic ahead as they passed by the Welcome to Sunnydale sign. Ten more minutes in gridlock was ten more minutes of serenity.

Craning his neck to see what the backup was about, he suddenly realized that the ground was rumbling. Deciduous trees lining the sidewalks trembled violently, shedding leaves and branches as they swayed, thin cracks began to form in the pavement, and cars were rocking back and forth on their tires as though they were parked on Lover's Lane. The panic alarms on several vehicles began to blare.

The shaking ceased as quickly as it had commenced, and drivers and passengers started climbing out of their cars to take look at the damage, as customers streamed out of the shops and restaurants lining the street.

"What the hell was that?" Charlie asked, blearily shifting herself out from under Spike's arm. "Earthquake?"

"Not an earthquake…" he said, the hair on the back of his arm prickling. Whatever it was, it wasn't a natural occurrence. "Hellmouth, maybe."

"You would know better than I would." She stuck her head out the window to survey the surroundings, turning in the direction that everyone outside seemed to be looking. "But show of hands, who thinks the giant mansion that just appeared on top of that hill had something to do with it?"

Spike checked the rearview mirror, turning full around when he saw the reflection of a massive building illuminated by moonlight, thousands of windows lit up in amber and perched on top of Kingman's Bluff.

"That's not a mansion, luv," Spike said, aghast as he squinted at it in the darkness. "That's bloody Versailles."


	21. Chapter 21- Code for Conflict

The thing about Sunnydale that drove Spike crazy was how bloody ridiculous the residing humans were. After snake-mayors, Halloween costumes made de facto, and that time when every single resident came down with supernatural laryngitis, he would have thought they'd be used to it. There were forty-two sodding churches within the town limits for god's sake, and yet every single time something weird happened, it was like Bon Jovi had unexpectedly arrived at the local Fuel N' Go to play a free concert on top of the gas pumps. Everyone felt the need to stand around and gawk as though they'd never seen anything stranger than a tag sale.

As he sat with Charlie in the car, waiting for the throngs of walking happy meals to thin out, there was little doubt in his mind who could pull off a feat as shockingly impressive as transporting a palace from one side of the world to the other. It was too much of a coincidence to be anything besides Bleakgrave. And though it made sense that the magician would choose Sunnydale, with the town being the center of everything evil and mystical, it bothered Spike immensely that the man could be wreaking havoc so nearby. They needed to find Buffy as soon as possible, and begin making headway into disposing of him.

As if sensing the tiny sliver of Spike's doubt over the cause of the exhibition, most of the lights in the windows of the palace flickered out, leaving a smattering of illuminated windows that formed the shape of an eloquent letter B.

"He just doesn't do subtle, does he?" Came the sardonic voice from the passenger side.

"Mayhap it stands for Bugger. Or Bollocks," Spike suggested, trying to make light of the situation.

Growing tired of the delay, Spike attempted to pull the DeSoto around the congestion of traffic. He was immediately stopped by a cattle-like crowd of people in the middle of the street, ignoring his incessant honking and Charlie's shouting, their frenetic chatter buzzing as loud as a bee colony. A few of them were even shooting pictures of the far-off building with disposable cameras, no doubt purchased with haste from the convenience store a few blocks down.

"Humans came up with the concept of Darwinism, yeah? If they're too bloody stupid to get out of the way of a movin' car, I'm just choppin' off the bad meat," he reasoned aloud, slamming on the brakes and scowling when the warning tingle in his head began to go off.

"There's a few non-homicidal, less brain-zapping ways of getting through, you know," Charlie remarked, eyebrow raised at the sight of Spike rubbing his forehead.

"Care to share these ways with the class, pet?" Spike doubted any of her ideas would be as fun as mowing people down.

"Just get out of the car for a sec," she replied. With a dubious glance at her, he put the car into park, leaving the keys in the ignition as he abandoned the driver's seat. Charlie slid over the leather interior and stepped out next to him. "Okay, now vamp out and pretend to bite me."

It didn't even make the top one hundred list of things he was expecting her to say. "Did you leave your bloody senses at the hotel?" he sputtered.

"Even double checked under the bed before we left. Trust me. I'll make a scene and we'll be gone before anyone does anything but run for the hills. Or at least run for that restaurant over there. Either way, empty streets."

"Alright," he said, resigned, "If I get dusted in the process, it'll be on your freckled shoulders. Mean that figuratively and literally." Though he protested, the truth was that it'd been a long while since he'd been able to give anyone a decent scare, and a crowd of Sunnydale sheep would make for most satisfying prey. He let the cartilage in his face shift, clenching his jaw as Charlie screamed bloody murder right next to his ear. She cowered dramatically against the car as Spike let out a ferocious growl and plunged towards her, trapping her within his arms.

His teeth points pressed against her neck in the very same place that they had once broken through, but instead of penetrating, he sucked at her tender flesh and flicked his tongue along the faint ridges of the scar he'd made.

It took seconds. Mere seconds for the entire horde to catch wind of the faux attack, and they began to shriek and stampede back to the safety of their cars and interiors like the cowards that they all were. It was like old times. And it was beautiful.

After a long moment of chilling screams, Charlie let her voice fade into moans, full of the kind of suffering that ended in bedrooms instead of grave plots, though Spike was the only one who knew it.

"And, end scene," she said, almost intelligibly, when the crowd had mostly vanished. It was clear that his ministrations on her neck had pleasurably affected her, and Spike gave her one last love-bite on the neck for good measure.

"Gutless wonders, all of them," Spike sneered jovily.

"I'm not gonna argue that. But let's mosey before someone decides to grow a backbone."

They were back in the car and down the street before anyone tried to intervene, only one or two flabbergasted faces staring after them as they flew by.

Spike parked behind a dumpster in his preferred abandoned lot, shielding the car with a few sheets of cardboard and other trash for camouflage before they began the short walk to the Magic Box. As they approached the shop, a foul stench filled the air, growing stronger the closer they drew. Stopping at the entrance, they came to the unfortunate realization that the scent of rotten sulfur wafting out the door was the only thing more rambunctious than the yelling coming from within.

The shrill voice they heard coming from inside could only belong to the ex-vengeance demon. "Everybody knows it! You just don't do it, Giles! Do you like this smell?"

"No! Of course I don't like the smell!" Spike could easily visualize the look of disdain on Giles's face without even seeing him, and he decided he'd spent far too much time around the Englishman.

"That's why you don't put skink root and holy water on the same shelf!" Anya scolded the watcher, "One little accident, and the place smells like a garbage disposal. Who's going to want to shop here now?"

"Well, as I recall, it wasn't me who wanted the inexpensive shelving units that can't survive a minor earthquake."

The door was slightly agape already, and Charlie pushed it the rest of the way open, quietly enough that neither Giles nor Anya heard the intrusion. The store seemed to have held up reasonably through the quake, with the exception of one section of shelving which had collapsed onto itself. The stench of the aftermath was overwhelming, though the two arguing constituents seemed indifferent to the fact they were still standing in the middle of it.

"I was saving us money!" the ex-demon countered, almost nose to nose with the watcher. "It didn't say in the catalogue that it wouldn't hold up, it said, _top quality, excellent price_! And how am I supposed to go home smelling like this? Xander won't want to touch me!"

Giles had turned as pink as the innards of a grapefruit as he glared back at his employee. "Anya, this isn't the time to be worrying about your… escapades." He practically turned vermillion when he caught sight of the open door and realized the argument had an audience.

"I think it _is_ time to start worrying whether you can buy air fresheners by the pallet at Costco," Charlie suggested, her mouth contorting into a grimace as she took a begrudging step inside.

"Oooh, get the piña colada scent," Spike added, mostly for the sake of further provoking Giles, "Loads better than that clothesline fresh rot."

"Charlie, Spike, you're just in time. If _time_ was two hours ago." Sarcasm out of the watcher's mouth was confirmation of the man's intense vexation, probably not a good sign when it was the opening line in his greeting.

"Got held up a bit," Spike explained, "and you're not gonna like the latest developments, Watcher."

"Can we take this outside? I think I'm going to asphyxiate." Charlie was already edging back towards the door, covering her mouth and nose with the cuff of her shirt.

"You don't breath, luv, you're dead," Spike reminded her.

"Yeah, well I breathe," Anya said irritably, "and it smells like we're standing in a month old egg salad sandwich."

"See! Let's not be sandwichy."

"Agreed." Giles hurriedly cracked open a few windows before stepping towards the exterior of the store, everyone else following suit behind him. He sat down on one of the benches outside, Anya and Charlie taking the second one, and waited until a young couple had strolled past the shop before beginning his inquiries. "So what are these 'latest developments', as it were?"

"Not for certain, but sure seems like Harry Potter's homely, evil twin decided he wanted a change of scenery, with little ol' Sunnydale as his new hometown," Spike disclosed, leaning against the store's painted stucco facade, lighting up and taking a long, well-deserved drag off his cigarette.

"Meaning, what, exactly?" Giles asked tersely, clearly not in the mood for Spike's ambiguous, whimsical language.

"Meaning that France is now missing its Versailles, because it's sitting on Kingsman's Bluff. That's what the quake was about, and you can guess who's behind it," Charlie answered.

Giles removed his glasses, rubbing his face in alarm. "Dear lord. That cannot be good."

"Nope, not good. So what happened to this meeting we were supposed to be having?"

"We were going to call everyone and meet back here when you guys showed up, but now…" Anya glanced angrily towards the shop's interior, "there's customer-repelling stinkage to deal with."

"Isn't there somewhere else we could meet?" Charlie loosely crossed her arms and looked pointedly at Giles. It'd been mentioned more than once that most of Scooby meetings pre-Magic Box had taken place at the watcher's abode.

"I'd offer my apartment," Giles clarified, "but there's a noise ordinance after 10 PM, and ever since Thanksgiving the other tenants have been less than forgiving about letting the rules slide. It seems that no one appreciates arrows and tomahawks in their drywall anymore."

Everyone looked at Anya, the next obvious choice. "We just paid to have the carpets shampooed. Don't even ask."

"Perhaps Buffy would be willing to offer up her house. This is something of an emergency," Giles decided.

"Where is she? Patrol?" Charlie asked. Giles nodded affirmatively.

Spike blew a last puff of smoke out his nostrils before crushing his cigarette out against the stucco and flicking it onto the sidewalk. "Restfield?"

"I believe so," Giles answered, as Anya scowled at Spike and picked the compressed stub back up off the ground, throwing it into a garbage can a few feet away.

"We'll drop in on her then, leave our stuff at the crypt. Maybe you lot should give Joyce a ring in the meantime, yeah? Give her a heads up that the Suicide Squad's about to descend on her residence?" Spike wouldn't put it past the Scoobies to show up at the Summer's house without bothering to inform the matriarch, but he had too much of a soft spot for mothers, and Joyce in particular, to let that happen.

Giles frowned at Spike's unusual amount of respect for a human, especially one with such close ties to the slayer, but made no comment. "Yes, I suppose that could work. If all goes well, we'll meet there in an hour?"

"Aye aye, Watcher." Spike caught Charlie's eye and gave his head a quick jerk in the direction of the crypt, and the two of them began the trek back. They walked in silence for a little while, sticking to the sidewalks and following the roads on autopilot.

Once they'd gotten a few streets away from the store, Spike directed one dark eyebrow at his companion, "Feelin' peckish?"

"How'd you know?"

"Your stomach's been rumblin' like trolley train since we got to the shop. And you've been starin' at me like you're a poorhouse orphan and I'm the only cuppa porridge left."

Her lips curved into an enigmatic smile and her eyes darkened a fraction as they passed a secluded alleyway. "Maybe I just want porridge to do bad, bad things to me."

God, but it tempted him. Hustle down the secluded narrow alley and have a few minutes of explosive bliss up against a rough brick wall. "Gonna be the death of me, pet. Save that thought for later. But if you think for a second that I'll let you anywhere close to my neck… or other parts... after a two day fast, you're off your bird."

"No worries. If we're about to crash a Buffy battle, then I'm doing takeout."

"Takeout?" Spike repeated, as he watched her pull two large plastic containers out of her bag in explanation. "On the other hand, nevermind."

As soon as they passed under the elaborately twisted iron gates of the Restfield Cemetery, the grunts and yells of an extremely physical altercation guided them to the slayer's exact location. They found Buffy balanced precariously on top of a crypt, launching herself downward to pummel a particularly ugly Strom demon into the ground.

"Yeow." Charlie was completely riveted as she watched Buffy drive a fist into the demon's stomach, inhaling sharply as the demon lashed back at the slayer with a nastily curved dagger. Spike had forgotten that she'd never seen Buffy fight.

Buffy blocked another attempted knife slash, countering with a side kick to the back of the demon's knees that sent him flying. "Guys, if you're here to give me the rundown on Bleakgrave, can it wait until I'm pulverizing this guy?"

Spike looked wistfully at the fight taking place. "How 'bout I _help_ you pulverize that guy, and then we can get this rundown over with as quickly as bloody possible?"

"Works for me. I have a date with my history book that I can't miss. Plus Riley's home tonight."

Spike rolled his eyes, annoyed that the soldier's away mission hadn't taken more time. Like forever. "Goodie. Maybe we can swap stories 'bout that time he put me in captivity like a bloody rabid mongrel."

Buffy yelped as the demon sliced open the edge of her shirtsleeve. "Are you helping or snarking?"

"You go sit," Spike instructed Charlie, pointing out a row of stones a safe distance away. "Watch. There's more to a fight than monkeyin' onto somethin's back and havin' a feast."

"Ya don't say."

"Mean it, Charlie. Off with you. Plenty of opportunity to rumble with the big bads later, don't want you gettin' your face clobbered on account of bein' overeager and still green 'round the ears."

"Hey," Charlie said, holding up her hands in acquiescence, "I'm not looking to fight him, he's all yours. I just want the leftovers." She meandered away to find a place to park herself.

Though larger than most Strom, the one Buffy was fighting was no exception to the textbook definition, with its pointed, bony head and closely set, beady eyes. The species weren't generally known for their cunning, but what this one lacked in flair, it made up for with lethal enthusiasm.

Spike jumped into the brawl, not bothering to change from human form. It was already a bit of an unfair fight, though he had to give the demon credit. Outnumbered two to one, the thing only grew more determined, deflecting both Buffy and Spike's attempts to take it down and lobbing a few harsh punches to both of them with its free fist.

Perched atop a nearby tombstone, Charlie braced an arm over her head as clumps of dirt and grass rained down on her.

"Doin' alright, pet?" Spike called out, rolling away from the demon's vice-like grip around its dagger, having barely avoided the blow that desecrated some poor sod's final resting place. Buffy took a running leap into the demon's side, knocking it down as it roared in aggravation.

"I'm good. Great, in fact," Charlie assured him, moving her limbs to sit cross-legged on the stone. "You know what this is? Dinner theater."

"Glad to provide entertainment," he responded dryly.

"Would you rather have _me_ providing the entertainment? I can narrate this epic skirmish, if you want."

"No," came Spike's definitive answer.

"Oooh! I do! It'd be beneficial to Slayer morale." Buffy grunted as the demon's foot connected with her thigh, and she elbowed its shoulder in retaliation, keeping a close watch on the knife.

"Alright," Charlie said, shrugging playfully as Spike sent her a menacing glower. "Ladies choice, Spike. You're overruled. Aaaand, in the ring, err…. ring of headstones... we have Buffy and Spike against an unnamed, armed, and very growly demon. We'll call him Jeff."

"You're callin' him _Jeff_?"

"What's wrong with Jeff?" Buffy asked.

"He's a bloody Strom demon, for starters."

Buffy grinned at Charlie. "I like Jeff. Continue."

Charlie cracked a wicked smile at the bickering combatants. "Right, continuing. Jeff seems crazed with bloodlust, wildly stabbing at our two heroes as they try to lock him down. Buffy powerfully kicks the knife out of Jeff's hand as Spike watches passively from the sidelines."

"Oi!"

"Annoyed, Spike turns and looks at the humble narrator in dismay, ignorant of the fact that Jeff is right behind him and- ohhh, oh. That's gotta hurt! Spike glares at the narrator again, while Buffy does all the work and punches Jeff squarely in the jaw. I think Spike needs a bandaid."

Spike eyed the shallow cut that ran from elbow to his shoulder. "Could we wrap this up, Slayer? For the sake of time and possibly my ego?"

With a lightening fast dodge and roll, Buffy snatched the demon's knife off the ground. "You hold, I'll slay?" She asked, eyebrows raised in silent appeal.

"With pleasure." Spike feinted left, then skated around the demon's other side, grabbing both its arms and locking them behind its back. The knife flashed as Buffy went in for the killing stab to the demon's heart, and the the creature's weight sagged in Spike's grasp.

"Gotta cleave the head off, Slayer. Regenerates, this one does. 'Less you fancy a do-over in a coupla minutes, but I don't think I can take another round of blow-by-blow from Bob Costas over there."

"He regenerates?" Buffy scowled at the demon, something which might have made an impact had it still been alive. "Sneaky. Well, who said you didn't learn something new every day?" She sliced the demon's neck in one quick, efficient swipe, making a face as its head bounced and rolled a few feet away. The rest of it dropped straight to the ground when Spike released its arms.

"And you," Spike grumbled, marching over to Charlie, and placing his hands on both sides of the gravestone she was sitting on, "you're a menace."

Buffy began wiping off the demon blade on the wet grass. "Spike, don't take it out on her. It's your fault you got distracted."

"Aw, are you okay?" Charlie leaned forward and inspected the thin line of red that ran up his arm, carefully running her fingers along the undamaged skin.

"Could be better. Pride's feelin' a little fragile at the mo'. You should drink up so we can get back to the crypt for a few," he said, pursing his lips, "and make me feel all manly again." A good fight with minor injuries never failed to get Spike's blood flowing in a downward direction.

"Say no more, my pride-deficient manly-vamp. I will drink with gusto," she promised, raising her chin to smirk at him. Unable to help himself, he leaned in, heatedly pressing his lips to hers in promise of things to come.

The knife slipped out of Buffy's hand and dropped to the ground with an audible thump. "Oh my god. I'm seriously gonna pretend I didn't just see that."

Spike had forgotten that the slayer was still standing there, but he supposed it didn't matter what she saw. Whatever relationship he had or didn't have, there was no need for it to be kept a secret.

With one last lingering kiss, Charlie hopped down off the headstone, pulling the containers and something silver and shiny out of her bag before making her way over to the headless demon carcass.

"What's that?" Buffy asked, curiously peering into the other girl's hand.

The brunette vampire eyed her sheepishly. "It's a spile. Willy had a bunch of them for his ale casks, but they're usually used for tapping maple trees, for syrup and stuff."

"And you're doing what with it?"

"… tapping this demon?"

Buffy groaned. "And goodbye, pancakes. Forever."

Charlie winced at the slayer's reaction, rolling the spile around between her fingers. "Sorry. I keep forgetting what smells good to me doesn't really entice everyone else."

"Anyone else," Spike corrected.

"Eh, it's okay," Buffy gave a dismissive wave of her hand, "Mom's on one of those no carb diet kicks so I probably wasn't going to be eating pancakes for a while anyway. Bonus, now I won't even crave them."

"Joyce is on a diet? Bloody ridiculous, she has a lovely figure."

"Right?" The slayer agreed, turning her back as Charlie shoved the spile into the demon's exposed flank, "That's what I told her, but she's been thinking about dating again and is all self-conscious about it. So anyways, what happened with Bleakgrave?"

If there was one thing Spike didn't want to do, it was repeat the events of the past thirty six hours in multiple different ways to multiple different people. "It's a tale I'm only tellin' one more time. Meetin's startin' in a half hour at your place, Slayer."

"Emergency code Summer's Residence? Since when? I thought we were meeting at the store."

"That was the original plan," Charlie piped up, "but trust me when I say you'll want to maintain a wide berth from the store for a good day and a half. Your nose will thank you."

"Got it. Just don't bring that…" the slayer pointed the knife at the steadily filling container of gooey green fluid, "when you come, or it's going to be the last meeting I'm ever allowed to have."

"Not to worry, Slayer," Spike gave Charlie's crouching form a smoldering glance-over, "Definitely stoppin' by the crypt 'fore we head out."

Buffy had already started walking towards the cemetery entrance. "Ugh, Mom's gonna be so mad I'm doing this on a school night."

* * *

 _A/N: Uh oh! Things are about to get real interesting in Sunnydale, so hang on to your hats, kiddies. Hope you're all still enjoying reading as much as I'm enjoying writing, and thanks for all the recent favs, follows, and comments. You guys are better fuel than coffee!_


	22. Chapter 22- Digging In

"I love this! All of you here, it feels like a party!" Joyce declared, beaming, as she opened the front door wide for the two vampires standing outside the Summer's home. Spike was gratified to see the woman so cheerful, and he dutifully wiped his heavy boots on the welcome mat before wrapping an arm around Charlie's waist and stepping inside.

It'd been a bitch to get the dirt stains out of his pants and the grass out of his hair, but he hadn't wanted to show up looking like he'd spent the past week climbing trees and backstabbing gormless contestants on a certain, very addictive, new reality show. Joyce was his kryptonite, reminding him enough of his own mother that he avoided as much of her disapproval as he could. In this case, his need for her maternal esteem had cost him all the intimate extracurriculars he'd been hoping for during the stop off at the crypt. Disheartening, certainly, but he planned on making up for it later.

The steps on the staircase squeaked noisily as Buffy came rushing down in a flurry of clean clothes and blond hair, her features advertising blatant disappointment when she saw who had just arrived. Clearly, Soldier Boy hadn't made an appearance yet. Putting aside whatever discontent she felt, the slayer came the rest of the way down to make introductions.

"I highly doubt that Spike has escaped your memory yet, but you haven't met Charlie. So, Mom, Charlie, Charlie, Mom."

Charlie gave Buffy's mother a heartfelt smile. "Hi, Mrs. Summers."

"Oh, honey, call me Joyce," the older woman said with a quick, nurturing pat on Charlie's arm. "Are you one of Buffy's school friends?"

"No, not exactly. More like a circumstantial co-worker," Charlie replied cryptically, eyeing Buffy to make sure she hadn't divulged too much information.

"Another slayer?" Joyce exclaimed, wrenching her head in the direction of her daughter. "Buffy, you didn't die again and not tell me, did you? Because honestly, I have enough trouble sleeping at night without-"

"No! There was no dying, Mom, promise! Charlie's helping us out. She's a vampire."

Spike was interested in how Joyce would react to Buffy associating with _another_ vampire, given her daughter's previous histories. The slayer's mother had seen her share of vamps, probably had more negative experiences than positive, but she'd always treated _him_ kindly. Except for the very understandable time she almost split his head open with an axe. "Well, you'd never know!" Joyce was saying, "You look so… normal. Was your, ah, turning, a recent occurrence?"

"Yeah. It's kind of a long, complicated story," Charlie said with a self-conscious wave of her hand as Joyce examined her with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy.

"Spike bit her," Buffy clarified.

"And that's the short version."

"Think you're bein' a touch economical with the truth, Slayer," Spike said grouchily. Leave it to Buffy to make him look bad in front of one of the few people that gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Seem to remember a part about Charlie Girl gettin' ready to push up a few posies. Don't suppose the part where she's still full of vim and vigor has anythin' to do with me?"

"Vim?" Charlie let the word bounce off her tongue, directing everyone's attention to the unfamiliar noun in his comment instead of the actual fucking point.

"It means wine in English lingo," Buffy explained, while Spike stared at the ceiling in frustration, "Giles used it once, said he missed the days at college when he was full of snap and vim. I think snap must be a kind of beer or hard alcohol."

Spike was about to give the slayer a much needed primer on English slang when he noticed Joyce frowning in confusion, her eyes bouncing back and forth between Charlie and the ajar front door. "Have you been in the house before? She asked, "I don't think I invited you inside just now."

"Huh," Buffy said, a matching crease forming between her brows as she looked at the female vampire.

"Great. Side effects vary, but may include yearning for demon blood, abnormal fangs, and house-entering without invitation. Tell your local slayer if you want to end it before you turn into a feral cat." Though Charlie said it with a shred of humor, her stiff posture and hands shoved deeply into her pockets gave away her troubled feelings on the subject.

"I draw the line at peeing on my porch step," the slayer warned, a touch of amusement dancing in her eyes.

"I'll try to contain myself."

"Don't even know how good you have it, pet," Spike huffed, practically salivating at the possibilities, the absolute mayhem he could have caused if he had been in her situation. Wasn't bloody fair. "Any idea the things I would have done for an all access pass to any house in the neighborhood?"

"Go ahead Spike, tell us what you would have done," Buffy said with a big smile. "Don't leave out any details."

"Hey! Is that cookies? Look, it's cookies!" Charlie said quickly, patting Spike on the back and pushing him towards the dining room where Giles and the rest of the Scooby crew were already assembled around the table.

Joyce followed them in. "Can I get you all anything? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?"

"If it's not too much trouble, a spot of tea would be lovely," the watcher conceded, with a cordial smile and a glance that didn't quite connect with Joyce's. Spike idly wondered what had happened between the two of them to make Rupes such an awkward, tittering pansy.

A chorus of "hot chocolate" and "coffee" followed Giles's request, and Joyce counted the orders on her fingers and headed off to the kitchen. Not wanting her to have to carry everything by herself, Spike trailed after her. "Give you a hand, Joyce," he offered, bestowing Charlie with a comforting squeeze on the shoulder as he walked past.

A baking sheet of fresh snickerdoodles sat cooling on the stovetop, a kettle of water about to boil heated next to it, and the coffee maker was making a loud gurgling noise and filling the room with a nutty, toasty aroma. Joyce flipped the spout of the kettle before it started whistling while Spike gave himself the task of transferring the cookies to a plate with a plastic spatula.

"Spike, you look so… happy," Joyce observed, giving him a tender glance as she pulled a mismatched assortment of mugs down from the cabinets and set them on a tray. "Feels like it wasn't that long ago that you were in here spilling your heart out over a cup of cocoa. I knew things would turn around for you eventually."

"Ah well, don't they say time has the decency to heal all wounds?" The last cookie on the sheet broke apart as he moved it, so he annihilated both pieces, grunting contentedly as the delicious taste of warm sugar and cinnamon infiltrated his mouth. He'd never understood why so many vampires insisted on being blood purists.

"And I suppose an alluring young woman on your arm helps too." The slayer's mother had a knowing smile on her lips as she poured scalding hot water into a teapot laden with tea bags.

"Just a touch," he replied with a grin and a mouthful of baked good, as he turned back towards the dining room.

"Oooh! Cookies!" Dawn flopped herself down at the head of the table, right as Spike was placing the fresh plate on the table's surface.

"I bet they'll taste better in your room," Buffy said, forgoing a chair to sit on Riley's lap. The soldier had apparently just arrived and was already giving Spike that calculating gonna-accidently-on-purpose-stake-you look he always had a habit of doing. Fantasizing, Spike pictured what Soldier Boy would look like if he was massacred by baking implements. Rolling pin down the throat, stainless steel pastry cutters would fit nicely into the tosser's ears, an ice cream scoop would be jolly fun...

"Mom said I could be in the meeting," the Niblet was arguing.

"She said no such thing! Mom?!"

Joyce poked her head in from the kitchen. "Oh Buff, let her sit in for a little while. You're not talking about blood and guts, and slaying things right? Just schematics?"

"Fine." Buffy slid off of Riley to sit in the chair next to him, giving her little sister a sharp look. "But stay quiet. Just… do eating, not talking."

Dawn made the motion of zipping up her mouth, then stared longingly down at the pile of freshly baked confections in front of her, and mimed unzipping it again as she reached for a cookie.

Buffy turned her attention to Charlie and Spike, sighing as though she were preparing herself for bad news, which wasn't far from the reality of it. "Alright, so fill us in. What kind of dirt did you dig up at the theater?"

"The slimy, repulsive kind that grows mutant, diseased corn instead of strawberries," Charlie replied bitterly, tucking her hands behind her elbows as she recalled the details. "Sorry. Feeling angsty. Bleakgrave's got some serious tricks up his sleeve. Besides some pretty insane magic acts on stage, we watched him pull souls out of an old, carved box during intermission. So, good news, I guess there's a limit to how many he can have inside of him at time. Bad news, he's got a piggy bank."

"A box for souls… I believe there's one or two mentions of such vessels in here," Giles noted, pulling a long, thin book out of his briefcase, and laying it on the table to peruse through.

"Are we also bringing up the fact that Versailles is now sitting like a mile away from here?" Anya added bluntly. "I suppose it's not the worst thing, at least as far as aesthetics go. I was invited there for a dinner party once, back when it was in Paris of course, and that Hall of Mirrors is per-rit-ty spectacular at night." Spike noticed that Demon Girl had changed her clothing and currently smelled like an entire bottle of watermelon body spray. The whelp that was stuck to her side like an octopus didn't seem to care.

"Versailles? Oh! Isn't that the Let Them Eat Cake palace?" Buffy's eyes brightened as she seemed to remember a history lesson or two. "It can't be too ominous if there's cake involved."

"Has Bleak's greasy prints all over it, so one would assume that it _is_ ominous, Slayer."

"When you assume, you make an ass out of you and-" Xander stopped mid-sentence when everyone at the table glared at him. "Shutting up now."

Tara sent a worried glance towards Willow. "That's a crazy amount of power for one person. I- I don't think I've ever heard of anyone being able to do something on that scale so easily."

The other witch nodded in agreement. "How much extra soul layaway do you think he's got kicking around in that box?"

Biting her lip, Charlie looked imploringly at Spike, who raised his eyebrows and shook his head in bafflement. Her guess was as good as his. "No idea," Charlie said, looking back at the group, "But he seemed to be very protective of it. It was pretty beat up, hand carved, so I'd guess that it's a family heirloom, one-of-a-kind sort of deal. He turned it into a marble bust to disguise it, and we almost swiped it when he left, but then… we um, didn't swipe it."

Recollecting the moments just before the magician camouflaged the box, an inspiring thought suddenly hit Spike. "He told his assistant chap to put it in the Peace Salon," he said, leaning forward to tap a finger on the table. "An' I'm guessin' he didn't mean the place he goes to get a friendly haircut. Might be an alcove like that hangin' out on the tourist's map of Versailles, yeah?"

It grew very quiet in in the room, but the invigorating feeling of finally being headed in a concrete direction was palpable.

"This is a job for Laptop Girl," Willow asserted, bouncing up to grab her computer out of her colorfully embroidered shoulder bag by the stairs. She was back in seconds, clicking away on the keys while everyone else looked on, silently waiting for her to announce her findings. After a few moments, it became obvious that her research might take a while.

Riley cleared his throat. "What kind of-"

"Oooh, floor plan! Found it! Okay, kitchen, dining room, lobby, second kitchen… bar? Oh. This is a restaurant. In Miami." Willow let out a long exhale, "Let's try this again."

Xander patted Willow on the hand, a smug grin stretching across his face. "Don't Ver-sigh about it, you'll find the right one!"

"So glad there's always a chair at the table for the comic relief," Spike bit out sarcastically, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. Needed more marshmallows, and probably some rum if the evening kept rolling down the same rail. "Do you all pay him with head pats, or is this one of those charity cases?"

"Hey Charlie? How do you say _shut up_ in vampire?" Xander asked.

"Sounds an awful lot like garbled nonsense, cause the vamp will be rippin' your throat out while you say it," Spike blithely replied before Charlie could answer.

"Well we all know that vamp won't be _you_." Riley's tone was half-mocking and half-threatening, and Spike threw an ice-cold glare at him in response.

"And I'm thinking I need to start carrying an air horn for group conversations."

"A splendid idea, Buffy," murmured Giles.

"Ah! Here it is!" Willow exclaimed, flipping her laptop around on the table so everyone could see the digital floorplan of the palace. "Guys, look at this! Peace Salon… it's on the second floor, this small room, right in the corner."

"Is that a good thing, being where it is?" Xander asked, scratching his head and squinting at the color coded image on the screen.

"Probably," Buffy answered, though she sounded unsure. "What's the fastest way to get to that room, Wills? From say, the front entrance?"

As Willow began detailing the various ways a tourist could travel the gilded halls of Versailles, Spike snuck a peek at the girl next to him. Charlie was paying rapt attention, dewy lips slightly parted and one hand curled around her steaming coffee cup as she listened to the conversation. Her wild, woodsy scent and closeness was driving him to distraction. The cleanup and quick meal at the crypt hadn't satisfied all of his needs, and Spike was feeling more than a little tightly wound.

Under the table, his hand drifted across her lap and closed around her free fingers. Her eyes flickered to his and her lips curved in affection, and he deviously slid her hand back to his lap and pressed it into the crotch of his jeans. Her fingers lingered for a split second on the thick, hard contour of what he'd been dealing with all sodding night, and he smirked as she lightly smacked him on the side of the leg and yanked her hand back. Though she momentarily scowled at him in mock indignation, she couldn't stop a hint of a smile from playing on her face.

"Can we focus, PLEASE?" Buffy exclaimed, whipping her head to pin Spike with a glassy stare. "I know this isn't the most fascinating plan of action we've ever come up with, but playing footsie under the table while you're supposed to be listening is going to amount to LOADS OF BADNESS if we can't come up with the best way to go after Bleakgrave."

"Sorry," Charlie mumbled, but Spike met the slayer's gaze with one of equal coolness, upping the ante with a defiantly raised eyebrow. Wasn't his fault the meeting was taking so bloody long.

"Did I miss something?" Xander asked, looking wildly around the table as though he were the only person not privy to a hilarious joke.

Dawn rested her chin in her hands and gazed dreamy-eyed at the pair of vampires across from her. "They had hot vampire sex in L.A., didn't they?"

"Dawn!" Buffy seemed horrified that her little sister could voice such a statement, especially so publically. Giles looked up from his book momentarily, fought off a chuckle, and launched himself back into research mode.

"What? I'm not a baby. I took Life and Family Class in school last year."

"Well, actually it wasn't _hot_ vampire sex," Anya said knowingly, "It was more like room temperature sex, because they're both dead, but I'm sure it _felt_ like-"

Xander made a choking noise as he wrapped his hands around his ears. "Details. Don't need them."

Buffy gave her sister a stern glance and pointed towards the door leading out of the dining room. "You. Out. Now." Dawn rolled her eyes with all the professionalism and experience of a fourteen year old girl before snatching another cookie off the plate and meandering out of the room. Her footsteps halted seconds after exiting the room, as Spike's acute hearing revealed, determining that the slayer's sister didn't go much further than the connecting foyer.

The chair next to Spike creaked as Charlie slumped further into it, two little spots of color blossoming on her cheeks. "And if anyone needs me, I'll be under the table for the remainder of this meeting."

"Didn't know you were into that sort of thing, luv. Promise not to make too much noise and give us away," he whispered in her ear, chuckling quietly as her eyes grew wide with disbelief over his insinuation. The traitorous little flick of her tongue to wet her lips was enough to tell him that his advances were turning her on, however, and his impatience to be finished with the meeting began to escalate.

Buffy deserted her chair to pour herself a cup of tea at the other end of the table, talking over the clinking of her spoon as she stirred a heaping teaspoon of sugar into her beverage. "Alright, I'm pulling the plug on tonight's episode of Loveline, so a big, fat, _mahalo_. What I want to know is how you guys got into Bleakgrave's dressing room in the first place. I would have thought he'd have some kind of magical security system in place. Or at least a huge guy named Biff or Gunner or something. "

"Oh, Bleakgrave had security in place," Charlie snorted. "You can ask Spike's arm all about that."

"Ta, kitten. Why don't you tell the nice Scoobies how well your mojo worked on the soddin' doorknob once I was finished writhin' in pain."

The Scoobies all looked to Charlie for an explanation.

"The magic thing was kind of a bust," she explained, "I'm not sure why. I said the right things, just no whammy factor. Fortunately for us, Captain Vampire-Shenanigans remembered a secret passageway in."

Buffy sat back down in her chair and took a sip of tea. "That's a bummer, it wouldn't've hurt to have another magically-inclined team member. I don't suppose you have any other useful skills on your resume? Like... good with weapons or exceptionally well studied in Latin?"

"I can make a mean whiskey sour?"

Spike fluttered his lashes at his progeny. "Oh, goodie. That'll send Bleaks runnin' back to the hell dimension, screamin' for mercy."

"He'd at least be screaming for a refill," she retorted.

"Does this look anything like what you saw?" Giles asked suddenly, sliding over the book he'd been thumbing through. It was open to a set of pages enhanced with a detailed ink diagram of a small box, and Spike barely needed to glance at it. He caught Charlie's eye and she nodded, "That's it."

"Ah, yes, of course, the Sipet de Bufnite, a relic of the fifteenth century." Giles pulled the book back so he could read the text. "Roughly translated, it's The Coffer of Owls, named for the superstition that the sound of an owl hooting after dawn was said to be calling a soul from a body."

"I thought the hoot was it's mating call," Xander said, with an agreeing nod from Riley.

"And that explains everything about boys," Willow muttered.

"I don't care what it's called or how it well flirts with the other magic boxes," the slayer declared brusquely, "What does it do and how do we destroy it?"

"Let's see…" Giles pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, holding the book closer to his face, "it's believed that it can hold up to fifty souls at a time, a sort of treasury for the person that owns it. It was intended to be used as storage to keep them safe, but obviously Bleakgrave isn't using it for such means. Um… destruction… A basic Nullify spell should work. We seem to have all of the ingredients at the store; canary feathers, fleabane, essence of violet, sulfuric fire, and... oh. A, um, Hepetelium stone."

Buffy lifted her chin a fraction as she narrowed her eyes in wariness at her watcher. "Is that going to be a problem?

"Is what going to be a problem?"

"The stone. You got all ummy about the stone."

"Oh, well no, no, not exactly a problem." Somehow, Spike didn't think that the watcher was being entirely forthright. It was probably the stuttering that gave it away. And the fidgety manner in which Rupes dipped his fingers under his shirt collar to loosen it up. "I don't have it, but I do know where we can procure one."

Whatever her prior misgivings were, Buffy appeared satisfied with the watcher's answer. "Good. So what's the drill?"

"Seems to me we could just swoop in from the roof and grab it," Riley proposed. "I can get you access to repelling gear and special ops equipment. Let's 007 this guy, take the box back to the shop or wherever, and destroy it. It'll be enough to cut off his power supply and even the playing field. Then we can handle him the way we usually do."

Willow pressed a few more keys on the keyboard and the screen zoomed in on the room in question. She studied it thoughtfully, "The Salon is right in the corner, and there's a bunch of windows. As long as we know what we're looking for, I don't think it'd be too hard to get it."

"We do know what we're looking for," Charlie pointed out. "A white marble bust of Bleakgrave, made by himself, for himself. And something tells me that he's enough of an egomaniac to display his own face front and center in the room."

"So all I'd need to do is slip in through a window and take his art project? As far as slayer jobs go, that sounds easy," Buffy said decidedly. "Like taking candy from a baby."

"I tried that once," Anya mused, "It wasn't easy at all. The baby screamed and pulled my hair, and you should have heard some of the things that its parents were yelling at me."

Charlie giggled, the noise evaporating into an embarrassed cough when she realized no one else was laughing. "Oh… you were serious…"

"She's always serious," Xander said, giving his girlfriend a tight squeeze around her shoulder. "Part of her charm."

Giles rubbed at his temples. "It's late. I think the best thing we can do is pack it in, and aim to implement this plan tomorrow night. Willow, Tara, I think a cloaking spell of some sort for Buffy would be helpful, and Anya and I will work on researching and gathering ingredients for the Nullify spell. Riley, you'll get the equipment and go with Buffy to the palace?"

"Of course."

"Until tomorrow then," the watcher said with a tired sigh. He slid his book back into his briefcase, and sat back in his chair, observing as the rest of the group began to collect their mugs and sweep the crumbs off the table. Spike didn't budge from his seat.

"And the rest of us, Watcher? Are we just gonna sit around and twiddle our thumbs like a bunch of twits while the big boys and girls get to take a whack at Bleaks?"

"This battle has barely begun, Spike," Giles warned him. "And I daresay we'll all be entrenched and dodging shrapnel before we know what's hit us. Enjoy the rest of your night, because there's no guarantee that we'll get through tomorrow unscathed. Once we've taken the box from Bleakgrave, the proverbial gauntlet will be thrown, and I fear there'll be more violence than even _you_ know what to do with."

Though he'd be loathe to admit it, the soberness of the watcher's words struck a chord in Spike, and he recognized the unwanted furlough for what it really was: a small donation of time for preparation and indulgence before the storm truly set in.


	23. Chapter 23- Old Habits

As he waited for Charlie to finish up an in-depth chat with Willow and Tara regarding magical energy transference or some other mystical mumbo-jumbo, Spike decided to slink into the most obscured part of the Summer's backyard to have a smoke. He knew Joyce hated that he retained the habit, the concept of him already being dead and unable to develop any of the diseases that usually came along with a nicotine addiction still a bit lost on her. Didn't stop him from smoking on her lawn, of course, but he made an effort to stay in her good graces and keep away from the house.

So it was completely by accident, though not an entirely unwelcome one, that when Buffy and Charlie stepped outside onto the back porch to have a private conversation, he was in the perfect position to overhear everything from the cover of darkness and trees.

He could still hear the clanking of dishes being washed and some muffled chatter coming from inside the house as Buffy sat down on the middle step of the porch. She leaned against the railing, stretching her legs out to rest them on the grass below. "I'm sorry we haven't really had the chance to talk since… you know, the big hurt and then the reappearing act. How are you doing?"

"Struggling fruitlessly against the realization that my life is never going to go back to normal." Charlie sat down beside the slayer and gave her an ironic smile, "You?"

Buffy blinked at her. "Same."

"Isn't stupid how you go around, thinking you have all this control over your life? Like there's just one or two things you need to take care of, and then everything's going to be the way you want it to be. And then, boom! Life decides to throw a curveball. Or, in some cases, a murder weapon."

Buffy shook her head sympathetically. "It's not stupid thinking that you have control. It's… hopeful. But you're right, you don't. You've only got control over you… usually... so it's not even worth dwelling on."

Charlie was quiet for a minute. "I want to block it all out, pretend that I never ran into Bleakgrave. It's way easier just to shut it off than face it, but it's not really working. I see him in every dark hallway and behind every door."

"Believe me, I get it, I died too. Prom, sophomore year. Didn't even get to do the Macarena."

That got Charlie's attention, as she eyed the slayer up and down. "Really? You're pretty tan for a vampire."

"Oh, it wasn't a vamp thing," Buffy said, then scrunched up her features, "Actually it _was_ a vamp thing, there just wasn't any bitin-" she cut herself off. "Nope, that happened too. Okay, remind me never to lawyer for the defendant. Long story short, I drowned. I was technically dead, and then I was given CPR and Buffy was back."

"No damage?"

"Not the physical kind, aside from bumps and bruises and one stupid vampire bite. But the emotional damage, that's the kind that sticks with you. I had so many nightmares about it. I couldn't tell my mom, she didn't even know about my slayer lifestyle. Dying messes with you."

"Yeah, it does," Charlie said softly. "I've had a few nightmares too. Relived that moment with Bleakgrave's knife more times than I can count. And seeing Carol. God, I want that memory burned out of my brain."

Buffy seemed lost in thought, and for an uneasy moment Spike could have sworn that the slayer was staring right at him. But she didn't call him out, and he chalked it up to a trick of light when she continued speaking. "I haven't really lost many people close to me. But if anything happened to my friends or family, the people I love, I don't even know what I'd do. I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"You'd learn that you're stronger than you think. That you can be bent until you almost break, but you won't. It hurts, but as long as there are reasons to keep on fighting, keep on living, you will."

"What are yours?"

"My reasons?" Charlie fiddled with the end of a strand of her hair. "To get rid of Bleakgrave. I'll figure out the rest later."

Spike was a little disappointed that he didn't figure in as at least a sidenote to one of her reasons for continued existence. He pulled sharp drag off his cigarette. And what the hell was this slayer and vampire heart-to-heart about? After a hundred years, he'd been fairly certain that wherever girl talk was concerned, one way or another the topic inevitably drifted to boys. And here he was, lurking in the shadows and not even gleaning a nugget of ammunition to use against Corn Fed. But at least Buffy was laying off the topic that led down the path to who Charlie's family was.

"You must have been close with your family, but you haven't talked about them much. You said your grandfather was murdered?" Buffy asked, as Spike shut his eyes and silently cursed everything.

Charlie gave a light shrug. "Yeah. I hate to sound callous, but I wasn't exactly close with my Pappa Eny. He was my dad's dad, kind of an extremist, not really big into hugs and kiddie scavenger hunts. Him and my parents didn't get along, so I never really got to know him."

"I think every family has a few Pappa Eny's. I have this cousin, Scott, who never takes his sunglasses off. As in ever. He's not really big on the hugging either, and Dawn and I never see him. Progressive boarding school or something," Buffy admitted. "What about the rest of your family?"

"I was close with a few of them. They were a weird bunch. My dad was wonderful though, and my aunt was pretty cool when she was around."

"Oh yeah, the aunt who disappeared in Sunnydale, right?" Spike's throat began to tighten as the slayer kept talking. "If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that they knew someone who disappeared here I'd… have so many dollars. I'm also sensing a fatality theme in your family tree."

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure the Kalderash family motto is _Eat, Drink, and Obituary_ ," Charlie said, letting out a bitter laugh and crinkling her brow in thought, "Or maybe it was _Sticking Our Noses in the Wrong Place Since 1847_. Can't remember. It's been awhile since I've attended a reunion."

Spike could hear the slayer's quick little intake of breath at the name Kalderash, and he wondered if Charlie had picked up on it too. He also knew that he was royally fucked. A sharp, coppery taste filled Spike's mouth, and he realized he'd bit down on his lip.

"What was your aunt's name?" Buffy asked in an odd, halting voice. So very, very fucked.

"Janna. Auntie Janna. She hated me calling her auntie though. She was only ten years older than me but she thought it made her sound like an old lady. Why?" Charlie asked, offering the slayer a questioning, hopeful gaze. "Did you know her?"

Buffy didn't speak for a moment, and Spike could only assume that the slayer was as startled by the discovery of Charlie's heritage as he had been, tasting her blood in the drippy dimension. "Maybe. Sounds familiar. I'll look into it."

The exchange seemed to arrive at an awkward standstill after that, lasting the span of a few minutes until Xander and Anya opened the back door to say goodnight. Once they'd departed, Charlie stood and dusted off the seat of her pants. "Hey, I meant to catch Willow before she left. We were gonna set up a time to try to get my magic back in commission. Mind if I…" she gave a quick jerk of her head towards the house.

Buffy gave the girl a distracted smile. "Yeah, of course."

As he watched Charlie disappear back inside the house, Spike's mind was already churning with thoughts as to how he could spin the Kalderash situation, and who out of the Scoobies he could bribe into not talking. He took another anxious puff of his cigarette. Anya was the only one he could coerce with money, the rest were going to be a problem. And then there was the issue of-

"Hey, Smokey the Bearly Concealed, I can see your cigarette butt glowing from the porch. Get out here. Now!" Buffy called from where she was sitting, interrupting his thoughts.

Spike dropped his cigarette to the dirt with a sigh and ground his boot into it, leaving the cover of the trees to join the slayer. Not even the soothing aftertaste of blood, tobacco, and menthol could keep his stomach from floating into his throat.

"Did you know? Who she is?" Buffy demanded, once he'd made the walk from the trees to the porch, feeling for all the world like he was a condemned man walking to the final appeal of his sentence.

"Never told me," he said, honestly.

"That's not what I asked."

"Fine. Yeah. Figured it out."

Buffy's fists slid to her hips, obviously not in the mood for half-truths or evasion. "And so you told her, right? About you?"

"That I'm a devilishly handsome bloke that wants to spend every wakin' moment engaged in deeply carnal activities with her? Think she knows, pet." It was the last ditch effort, wishing fervently that the slayer hadn't done her homework on the gypsy clan history.

"Ew. No, Spike, _that you_ _binged on her ancestors like it was Buffet Night at the Kalderash Food Festival_ ," she hissed, and all of Spike's hope disintegrated into a pile of vampire ashes.

"Yeah, that. Uh, no. Not yet," he quavered, scratching an itch on his leg that didn't exist. "But I will. Absolutely. On the agenda."

Buffy saw right through his bluff. "You weren't going to tell her, were you?"

"Don't see what you're fussin' about," he said quickly, crossing his arms and glaring down at the blonde bringer of unnecessary complications. "Can't change it, can I? Is it gonna make her unlife better, knowin' that the fellow she's shaggin' did those things? Is it gonna make her happy, Slayer?"

"No, it isn't. But she deserves to know the truth. And it's going to be way worse if she finds out by opening up one of Giles' history books."

"She deserves to know the truth," he echoed, "but you just told her you didn't know Rupert's old bird. How do you figure that one?"

"Oh, believe me, I plan on telling her about Jenny," Buffy said, glancing up at the kitchen window as if to make sure no one was within earshot, "I just want to break the news to Giles first. Preferably while he's sitting down."

"So, what, you and Charlie Girl are bosom buddies now? There gonna be hair-braidin' and sleepovers to go along this unburdin' of all the little secrets?"

"We were bonding… there was bondage," Buffy's eyes widened in embarrassment. "Of the friendly variety! I'm still talking, aren't I? Look… I'll cut you some slack for now, but as soon as this Bleakgrave thing is over with, either you're telling her or I'm telling her about last century's menu."

"Fine, pet, we'll do it your way. But if we're takin' this fun trip down memory lane, seem to recall it was your ex-hunny that started _that_ shit show. And wasn't Angelus the one playin' life-sized Dead Barbie in Watcher's flat after he snapped her auntie's neck like a twig? Bragged about it an awful lot, he did."

"Yeah, Spike, it's not like I could forget," Buffy snapped, "We'll tell her."

Barring being able to find a way around the whole mess, he knew that he at least needed to prepare himself for the worst case scenario of having to come clean. "Could you…" he paused, loathing the idea of asking the slayer for a favor.

"Could I _what_?"

"Could you make it sound _really_ bad, you know, when you fill her in about the Angel bit? That way, when she hears about me, sounds more like a bad dinner soiree than a bloodbath."

Buffy made a noise in the back of her throat that sounded like she was trying to choke back a harsh laugh. "You're despicable, and no. She gets facts."

"Fine, Slayer, spill all the beans any way you please," Spike said churlishly. "But don't forget to disclose the part where Angelus wrote you those sweet nothin's on her grandpop's wall. Said he was all out of ballpoints, so he finger-painted. What was that color he used called again? Eradicated Enyos? Kalder-Crimson?"

Buffy's lips drew into a tight line as she glared daggers at him. "You would know, seeing that all the hues on _that_ paint swatch have been ON YOUR MOUTH at some point."

"Oh, there you are!" Charlie said, opening the porch door and sticking her head out to direct her query at a very discomposed Spike. "You ready to head home?"

"More than," he answered, and with a swirl of his leather duster, he wrapped his arm around Charlie and left the slayer to stew by herself in the dark.

* * *

A/N: Oh Spike, you're gonna be in so much trouble. I love hearing what you guys think, so if you have a free moment and maybe a couple of fingers, leave me a comment! Also, next chapter, fair warning- things are going to get a little steamy, so if that's not your thing, skip ahead. Hope you all are having a lovely week. Or weekend. Or whatever day it is that you're reading this.


	24. Chapter 24- Interlude

"You should just tell me now. Rip the bandaid off, so to speak," Charlie blurted out after they'd been walking for a few minutes.

Bloody hell. Spike had thought he'd kept his voice down outside with Buffy. "Tell you what, luv?" he asked cautiously, sneaking a glance at her. She seemed perturbed, absently twisting a cord on her shirt in a way that made him want to reach out and steady her hands.

"We're gonna get our asses handed to us, aren't we? I mean, I haven't been around Buffy long enough to know everything she can do, but Bleakgrave isn't a reptile marauding around a graveyard with a kitchen knife. I have a really bad feeling about how this is going to go down."

Spike felt the tightness in his chest ease up. No need for deception or confessions just yet. "Slayer's been up against ruthless fiends and foes, time and time again. She's got her usual suspects assistin' her, and Sunnyhell's version of the NSA watchin' her back. Far as I'm concerned, Bleaks is a dead man walkin'."

"I still can't help thinking that Bleakgrave's going to be able to bring us to our knees with barely a thought." Charlie kicked at a stick that was in the middle of the sidewalk, and it went skittering onto the darkened road as they walked by.

"Focusin' an awful lot about bein' on your knees, luv. More pleasurable ways of gettin' there than pickin' a fight with a magical wanker." It was a diversionary tactic, rather than one seeking out optimism, but Spike had begun to figure out the best way to handle his progeny when she was being too stubborn to let reassurances improve her mood.

His ploy seemed to work, and she gave him a playful nudge in the ribs. "All I need to do is leave a teeny, tiny crack in the wall of innuendo, and you come crashing through it like the Kool Aid Man on a the way to a slumber party."

"'Cept there won't be any sleepin' when I come crashin' though." He gave her a lopsided smile as he took a sharp left down a side street.

"You're impossible," she muttered, shaking her head amusedly. She looked back in the direction they had walked from, her face obscured by the shifting, deep shadows formed by the streetlamps. "Also, I may still qualify as the new girl in town, but I don't think that this isn't the way back to the crypt."

"Takin' the long way home."

"Said the vampire with sex on the brain since we left Los Angeles. You're a masochist."

"Patience, pet," he advised, feeling anything but patient himself. He took the next right-hand street, stopping momentarily to survey the houses that sat on both sides. Sunnydale consisted of plenty of slums, as well as a multitude of decent suburban neighborhoods, the two areas that Spike spent the majority of his time haunting. And, like most All-American towns, there was one section belonging to the upper crusty, one-percenter, deep-pocketed residents, its streets lined with luxury condos and mini-mansions. The very section that they were currently standing at the entrance to.

"Prosperity Lane..." Charlie read the bronze placard that was set into an elegant retaining wall a few feet away, then inspected the ritzy houses that were sprinkled within the lots extending down the street. "They're not even trying to be modest. And why exactly are we touring through the Lives of the Rich and Famous?"

"Connects to Steward Street and then the cemetery," Spike lied, hoping that she would quit asking questions before he was forced to admit the purpose for the roundabout route.

He almost tripped into her when she stopped walking, tilting her head to give him an expressionless stare.

"What?"

She made a show of looking at the bright yellow sign that said "dead end".

"Knew there was a reason I liked this street," he said, grinning. "Connects to Steward and the cemetery once we get to where we're goin' and turn 'round again."

"You're up to something," she said, narrowing her eyes at him accusingly, and he gave her guiltless shrug in response.

They continued down the road, admiring the expansive brick and cobblestone walkways and lawn-islands of immaculately pruned bushes and trees. The scent of freshly cut grass hung heavily in the air, and the sidewalks shone with moisture from the numerous sprinkler systems on the lawns. Every house seemed to be covered in a minimum of three dozen windows and well endowed with pillars and balconies, each domicile outshining the last the further down the street they walked.

Finally coming upon a house that could easily pass for an Italian villa if Spike hadn't known they were still in Sunnydale, he veered off the sidewalk and up the driveway. While the exterior of the house was brightly lit, the interior couldn't boast the same. It was all dark in the land of terracotta tile and stucco.

"And who lives here?" Charlie asked, impassively watching him creep about some lilac bushes planted on the side of the garage as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Spike peeked in one of the garage windows, running his fingers along the edge of the windowsill as he studied the dimly lit shapes inside. "Middle aged divorcee... controllin' type, likes to spend his weekends sunnin' himself on his fancy boat."

"Ah, I thought for a minute we were breaking and entering. How do you know him?"

"Don't," he said, hopping out of the bushes and making his way over to the lacquered wooden door at the front of the house, some several yards away. He lifted up the plush welcome mat, scowling at the centipedes that went darting out.

"Then how do you know that-"

"-Overly tidy garage, check. Midlife crisis car shaped like a penis, check," Spike noticed a rock garden a short distance away from the door and ambled over to it, "Vanity plate with the letters "YACHT-Z", check. Prolly earned all his dosh nickin' stock funds from a cushy CEO job."

"Isn't there a saying about people living in glass houses not throwing stones?" she asked, still following right behind his billowing coattails.

"True. But more to the point, people livin' in _nice_ houses shouldn't use _fake_ stones to tuck away their spares." He cheerfully jingled the set of keys he'd just pulled out from a compartment hidden inside a less than convincing plastic rock in the middle of the garden.

Charlie trailed after him as he sauntered back towards the garage, attempting to grab his arm. "Spike! We're not breaking into some rich guy's house because you wanna take his speakers or something!"

"Never said we were breakin' into the house, pet." He began inserting keys into the lock of the towering gate on the side of the house. Third try was the charm, and the gate swung open without a sound.

He'd figured the pool would be spectacular. Out of all the decidedly uninhabited houses they'd passed, the one he'd picked was the only one he could hear the calming sound of trickling water coming from. The backyard was as meticulously manicured as the front, but the crowning jewel was in the center of the yard; a curving, inground swimming pool, topped with soft plumes of steam hovering just above the crystalline water. A rock formation on one end of the pool rose skyward, crowned with a small waterfall flowing from its highest point down to the basin of water below.

Charlie took in the scene with awe, eyes roaming from the lush grass, to the palm trees, and finally to the pool itself as an incredulous bubble of laughter arose from her throat.

It was exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for. "Not too shabby, is it, Charlie Girl?"

"Just when I think I have you figured out…" she said, shaking her head at him in amazement.

"Tryin' to get me figured, are you?" _He_ didn't even have himself or his intentions figured out. It was a complicated mess of knotted feelings in his gut, namely lust, followed closely behind by a heavy dose of adoration, all tied up in something that felt suspiciously like fear.

"Beneath that smug, bad boy exterior, you're kind of a romantic, aren't you? This," she said, holding her hands out towards the picturesque landscaping, "is the very definition of poetically beautiful, and here we are on a… what? A date? With trespassing? A tryst with a twist."

"Like the twisting, do you?" he replied suggestively.

"I'm serious."

He sighed, and put his hands on both of her shoulders, ducking down a little to gaze into her eyes. "Way I see it is this: Watcher as good as said we've got one more night of lettin' our hair down before Bleakapalooza sets in. Restaurants are locked up for the night, not that you'd be interested in what they're servin' anyhow, and all the stuff playin' at the cinema's total pants. You deserve a night of fun, pet. Somewhere nice. When was the last time you had a night of bein' footloose and fancy free without death nippin' at your heels?"

"Hmm," she hummed, looking towards the starry sky in thought. "October fourth of 1980. I was seven and there were ponies and ice cream."

The slight, flippant smile she gave him sent a flood of heat rushing to his chest, and he couldn't have stopped himself from pressing his lips to hers even if he'd wanted to. His mouth moved against hers as she knotted her fists into his shirt and pulled him tightly against her. With a soft growl in his throat, he pulled away, taking several steps backward. Shoving off his duster, he crouched down and loosened the laces on his boots before stepping on the insole, pulling his foot out of each one.

Bewildered, Charlie studied his stooping form. "Whatcha doin' there, Spike?"

Seductively running his tongue across his teeth, his eyes only left her face as he slipped his black t-shirt over his head and lazily tossed it on a sun chaise.

Understanding slowly crossed her features, and her brows tilted in mild protest. "Oh, you're not-"

He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly, and let his jeans drop to the slate tiles, eying her with the predatory stare of his that seemed to announce all of his wicked intentions without actually giving anything away.

She peered at him the way a sculptor might admire a Bernini sculpture, his bare form gleaming in the moonlight, and she unconsciously stroked the back of her arm with her fingers as her eyes caressed every inch of him.

"Like what you see, luv?" he asked with a self-assured smirk, already knowing her answer as she bit her lip in a slowly building smile.

He stilled, letting her gaze at him a moment longer before he padded over to the pool, taking the underwater steps one by one until the water reached his chest and his feet hit the illuminated floor. It was as warm as bathwater, and didn't smell or taste of chlorine, but of the expensive salt alternative that rich folks had a habit of preferring. He glided through the liquid warmth to the opposite end, turning around to rest his back and elbows against the hard edges of the pool's lip.

"Think you're a smidge overdressed, pet," he said with a dark glint in his eyes, "Might wanna remedy that 'fore I decide to pull you in, boots and all." He grinned at her, thinking he might enjoy the challenge anyway.

"Well, I like these boots." Charlie glanced down at her feet, and then back up at him, something both playful and wanton flickering across her face. "I wouldn't want them getting... wet."

He watched through the haze of the steam as she sat down by the edge of the pool and undid the messy knots in her laces of her worn, dark boots, leisurely pulling her feet out and rolling a bright pink sock off of each one. When she was finished, she casually leaned back on her hands to study him once more.

The edge of his mouth twitched as he understood the game she was playing, and his competitive nature set in, determined to get her undressed and into the pool as quickly as possible. "And those are a well fittin' pair a' jeans, Charlie Girl. Hate to see 'em all salt stained 'cause you didn't wanna take 'em off."

Biting her lip to hide her smile at his quick comprehension and willingness to play along, she unbuttoned her pants and slid them down her legs, folding them up and laying them next to her discarded boots. She scooted over to sit at the edge of the stonework and dangled her bare feet in the pool. Spike left his resting place and circled closer, a hungry shark scenting blood in the water.

"Shirt should prolly go too. Not much gonna be much fun to stroll home if everythin's… all... drippin'."

Unable to stop the flash of a grin from exposing itself this time, the navy shirt Charlie was wearing was up and over her head in an instant, leaving her clothed only in sheer, turquoise colored undergarments. He drifted to where she was sitting and starting at the tops of her feet, gently ran his hands up her cool legs. The water had warmed his body temperature, and she let out a soft moan as the heat transferred into her skin.

"Think I can take it from here," he murmured, leaning his damp chest against her knees and reaching behind her to unclip her bra with a deft, practiced hand, adding it to the pile of discarded clothing. As she wound her hands into his hair, he traced his wet fingers along her collarbone, capturing the water droplets with his tongue as they spilled down her breasts. He followed the path of one that slid down to her navel and soaked into the fabric of her thong, catching the elastic between his teeth and tugging it down her legs with the aid of his fingers.

Her hands drew his face back up to her mouth, and as she turned to lightly bite his neck, a technique she'd no doubt recently picked up from him, his whole body began to tingle and he muffled the animalistic noise that came out of his throat against her skin.

"Ha. Found your spot," she chuckled, "And low and behold, you like to be bitten. Irony at it's finest." In payback, he gave her a calculating smile, wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, and pulled her into the water with him.

She let out a little yelp before going under, emerging seconds later, her hair saturated to the point of looking almost black. "Oh god, this feels so good." She pushed her soaking hair out of her face, and watched the warm mist roll off her skin and into the night air.

And then she was looking at him again, in that way that made him feel like she was really looking _at_ him and not _through_ him, not just seeing the soulless vampire, Spike. "You're beautiful," she said in a voice just above a whisper, and he could feel his whole face beginning to glow with tenderness as she brushed his cheek with her fingertips. "And I like you. Like _really_ like you. And that's the most stupidly unimaginative way I could tell you that, but I just wanted you to know, and now I'm getting all rambley, so just shut me up whenev-"

Her words echoed in the back of his throat as he cut her off with soft lips and his persistent tongue. The heat of the water and her lithe frame enveloped him, her legs wrapping around his hips at their own volition, and the crescendo of lust that had been building hit him like a freight train.

"God, luv," he groaned, sighing in bliss as he lifted her up and sheathed himself fully inside of her.

He felt like he was taking a long, deep drink of thick, warm buttered rum. Her soft velvet interior surrounded his expanding erection as they drifted, slow and dreamlike in the water, achieving intimacy on a level that he'd never experienced before. Face to face, he watched her reactions to his movements, entranced at the way her lips parted in a pleasured gasp, her eyes widening ever so slightly as she gazed right back at him as he moved.

It was more than just sex. Had to be. He'd slept around enough during his breakups with Dru to know the difference between a temporary fling and a real connection. He wanted to be the only one to make her come, wanted snog her senseless, keep her locked away in a safe little box where no one else could touch her. Besotted. That was the word. He could feel himself falling and he didn't care. Always love's bitch, yeah?

Cupping his hands underneath her as he rolled his hips against her pelvis, Spike let himself sink backwards, submerging them both underwater. Charlie appeared surprised for a moment, until her lips curved upwards at the realization that neither of them needed to resurface for air. Her dark hair made a wild halo of twisting shapes around her head, reminding him of a selkie or mermaid, come to steal his heart and doom him for eternity.

Her hands pressed flat against his chest, she rocked against him on the floor of the pool until he rolled them both over in a flurry of bubbles and grappling limbs. It was an all-out assault after that, an affectionate wrestling for control while enjoying the novelty of pleasure in such a foreign environment.

It seemed like not enough time had passed before she arched her back, and he felt the ripples of ecstasy flood through her, releasing the hot, tight coil inside him. Extremities relaxed, Spike let the water pull them back up to the surface, feeling the loss of warmth as the cool air hit his exposed, damp skin.

They waded to the stairs and he sat lengthwise on one of the lower steps, and Charlie draped herself across his lap, nestling her face into his chest. He wasn't tired, but he didn't want to move, serenely resting his chin on the top of her head. Would have given anything to freeze the rest of the world and stay right where he was for the rest of eternity.

"What were you like? Before?" she asked softly after a while, leaning back against him and looking up to press kisses under his jaw. He tightened his arms around her as he thought about how best to answer her.

"'Fore some doc thought it'd be fun to play Operation with my noggin?" He shut his eyes as her lips sent waves of heat quivering down his limbs. "Or before you? All sorts of lonely, that. Lots of drinkin'. Lurkin' about. More kitten poker than is healthy for a vamp."

"Before you made Plasma Hut your favorite fast food," she clarified.

"Dunno," he said, warring with himself to open up instead of insisting that his cool, devilish ways had always been inherent. He decided to compromise. "Was a bit of a ponce, really. Hated the gits I was surrounded by, wasn't like them. Most of them anyway."

"So… basically nothing's changed."

His eyes flew open to see Charlie attempting to hold back a grin. She was obviously trying to provoke him, and he gave in to her teasing with a mock scowl. "Beggin' your pardon, missy! I'll have you know that I am-"

They both flinched as the back slider to the poolside slammed open. "HEY! I CAN HEAR YOU KIDS! You've got ten seconds to get out of my yard before I call the damn cops." Spike could see the silhouette of a man against the light of the house, presumably the homeowner.

Spike sat bolt upright. "Oh, bollocks."

"Shit shit shit!" Charlie cursed as she nimbly hopped out of the water and ran to her discarded clothing, struggling to shimmy her water-drenched legs into her pants and throw on her shirt as Spike followed suit right behind her.

"I swear to god, Warren," the man bellowed from the safety of the house, "if that's you in there, I WILL be calling your mother again, and there aren't enough electonics in my house for you to fix to change my mind. You have your own pool, stop taking girls to mine."

"Oh, come on, man! Don't be such a tightass!" Spike called out in what he hoped would pass for a whiny teenaged boy's as he pulled his shirt over his head.

"That's it. I'm calling your mom!" was the angry reply, "And you'd better be gone by the time I get back out here!"

Spike was still trying to buckle his belt with his duster slung around one arm as they hustled away from the pool and out the gate. It wasn't until they'd gotten halfway down the street that Spike realized Charlie had her hand over her mouth, desperately trying not to dissolve into a fit of laughter. "Well that made up for about five things I never ticked off my list during my rebellious teenaged years. And I've never put pants on so quickly in my life," she laughed, wringing her water-logged hair out as she reduced her speed to a walk.

Spike slowed down to match her pace. "There's one good reason you were able to scamper off so bloody fast. Think you left somethin' behind, pet."

His comment earned him a raised, satirical eyebrow. "My shame?"

"Among other things." He pulled her bra and thong out of his duster and dangled them in front her, both a little wet from the haste of the pool exodus.

"Looks like you left something behind too", she said, giggling, as she snatched the undergarments out of his hand and stuffed them into her pocket.

Well it certainly wasn't underwear, and he'd never had much shame to begin with. "And what's that?" he asked, puzzled.

"Your hair gel is all sorts of gone."

He put a hand to his head, feeling the tufts of half-damp platinum hair that were sticking wildly from his scalp. "If you tell me I look like a bloody poodle, I'll make sure you regret it six ways to Sunday, luv," he threatened, hoping to exact his revenge in love bites and foreplay.

"I would never call you a poodle," she said, smiling innocently up at him, "when you look like a chrysanthemum." She walked backwards for a moment as she watched her taunt sink in, then spun and took off sprinting down the street. With a wolfish grin, he watched her for a moment before his eyes sparked gold and he took off after her. It was in that particular moment that Spike decided he was willing to do whatever it took, whether it be dangerous, foolish, or sod-it-all stupid, to never let her go.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks so much for the favs and reviews this past week guys! It's been difficult to find time to write, but getting notifications keeps me motivated! Please review, I love hearing what you all are thinking. If you're like me, a total dork that loves a soundtrack, I've put one up at 8track, info's on my author page. And tsohg-a-ma-i, thank you so much for your sweet comments._


	25. Chapter 25- Impractical Magic

Spike was used to vivid dreams, all technicolor and stereo sound, and usually full of sex or bloodshed. Oftentimes sex _and_ bloodshed, as agreeable a pairing as candlelight and poetry readings. But they were never like this, with him standing demurely in the lobby of a building, the room gleaming white and sterile, all polished floors and brass fixtures. If it hadn't been for the deco-style elevator in front of him, he would have thought that he was back underground in the Initiative facility. Nightmare, that.

He zeroed in on his hands, and realized with a start that the slender fingers and clean, rounded nails, devoid of chipped black polish were _hers._ The sound of elevator arriving captured his attention, and he lifted his head just as the door opened with a bright, cheerful _ding_. And there, waiting inside, the husband from the photo hidden in Charlie's apartment. Jesse. Oh, Spike knew how this dream ended, and he looked bleakly down towards his stomach, expecting to find himself impaled with the knife that Charlie had talked about. But there was nothing there except for a flat, feminine abdomen and a chunky-knit blue sweater.

"Come on. What are you waiting for?" Jesse waved impatiently as Spike looked up again.

Not knowing what else to do other than obey, he walked onto to elevator, roughly brushing up against the shoulders of a man in a tweed suit who was rushing to get on at the same time. Jesse smiled warmly at Spike as the man in the suit jammed his finger into the button for the 17th floor and the elevator door slid shut. As the dial on the floor level indicator began to rotate towards the higher numbers, Spike realized that a piece of yarn from the end of his… her sleeve was stuck in the door and the sweater was rapidly unravelling.

He tried pinching the yarn between his thumb and forefinger, but the thread kept shooting right through, burning the pads of his fingers. It whipped in circles around his, no, _her_ arm, and then around her torso, disappearing through the slit in the door. By the time the lift stopped at floor 17, there was only a tiny band left around one wrist.

"This is your stop," the suited man said to Spike, as the door dinged open again. The air seemed to whistle by tunelessly as he stared into a room of vast, white nothingness. Dread crept up through his stomach, and Spike opened his mouth to tell the man, "ladies first," but found he had no voice. And he supposed since he seemed to be inhabiting Charlie's body, the insult wouldn't have packed as much punch anyway.

"No! Can't we just go to the top? This is going to hurt too much," Jesse begged Tweed, grabbing miserably at the man's arm.

"It's not time yet. Almost. But until then..." With a flourish, Tweedy handed Spike, or Charlie, a piece of floppy, orange cheese that left his thumbprint embedded in the surface when he handed it off.

"Don't spoil your appetite," Jesse whispered in Spike's ear. The boy's words sounded strangled and anxious, and to Spike's absolute stupefaction were punctuated by a firm kiss to his lips.

Before Spike could react to the rather presumptuous act of endearment, Tweedy cheese-man gave Spike-Charlie a not very gentle shove out of the elevator, and they were falling.

Spike awoke with a jolt, the sickening feeling of inertia still plummeting through him as he tried to wrap his brain around the fact that he was quite stationary on his bed.

With a glance to his side, he realized that Charlie was also awake, sitting up with the sheets wrapped tightly around her knuckles, trying to control the slight trembles that had taken up residence in her limbs. The mattress dipped as he pulled himself into a sitting position, and she turned her head towards him, her eyes dark with apprehension.

"You alright? What's wrong, luv?" Shaking off his own jitters, he pushed her still-damp hair off of her face, draping it over her tense shoulders so he could run his thumb in soothing lines down her neck.

"Nothing, I'm okay. Just a dream."

"Must be somethin' in the air." Spike kissed her temple and gently tugged her back down to the bed, pulling her back firmly against his chest. "Wasn't that elevator one again, was it? Think you rehashed it well enough that I just dreamed the most unwelcome sequel."

"What?" Startled, she rolled over onto her side to face him.

"Weird dream, light on the humor, heavy on the cheese," he reiterated. "Wardrobe, featurin' shoddily made sweaters. Think your hubby made an appearance too, and kissed me on the mouth, the floozy."

Charlie stared at him in shocked silence for a moment. "That was _my_ dream. _I_ just had that dream. How...?"

He stared back at her with equal surprise. "Tweedy git handin' out free Kraft samples?"

"No sprinkle of tinkerbell dust before getting off at floor 17?"

"Bloody hell."

"Is this like a vampire… sire… side effect?" Her forehead creased with worry and Spike almost wanted to lie to her and say that it was, just to ease her mind. But he thought better of it, wanted to keep his deceit to a minimum, save all the wrongdoing for bigger issues.

He shook his head. "Never shared a dream with Dru. Don't think she ever experienced it with Angel either, and believe me, she was above the board with me about everythin' they shared. 'Specially when I didn't want to hear it."

"Maybe it was… bad milk. You had hot chocolate at Buffy's, right?" Charlie scratched at her lip and frowned at a tiny hole in the pillowcase. "I put milk in my coffee, so maybe it was spoiled, and it's just some weird dairy occurrence that only happens when two vampires sleep right next to eachother and-"

"-Kitten," Spike interrupted, catching her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him, "it wasn't the soddin' half-and-half. Don't know what it was, but it was deep. I was in your head, seein' what you were seein', feelin' the same tinglies that you were feelin'."

"You didn't have… I mean… what other kinds of dreams have you had lately?"

Spike gazed at her from beneath his lashes, "They've had a rather recurrin' theme of yourself and yours truly."

She looked thoughtful for a minute, her lips eventually tugging ruefully upward. "So I guess this means we both know what happens when you put us in a room with chocolate sauce and popsicles, huh?"

He ran through his mental rolodex of recent dreams involving her, reasonably sure that he would've remembered one involving either ingredient. Given the sultry look on her face, it was clearly one she wasn't going to be forgetting anytime soon. "Can't say I remember, but maybe you could remind me, pet," he suggested with a widening smirk, tongue curling behind his teeth.

Her smile flatlined. "Oh… um, it was like a cooking dream. We were putting- I mean we were _preparing_ dessert. Totally boring."

"Right. And my name's Phoebe Buffay."

"You know, the blond hair, the past life of crime… I should've known," she countered, blowing out an exhausted breath. "I guess we're not mind-melding every time we sleep, but maybe we should see if Giles or any of the gang have heard about something like this happening."

"The crack team occasionally gets it right, but they know sod all about vampire nitty-gritties. Not sure I can make heads or tails of it either, but the last dream you had was fairly literal, so mayhap the dreams are somewhat prophetic."

"So this time, I'm gonna get shoved out of an elevator? Prophetic dreams suck. I don't want to know all the bad shit that's going to happen to me!"

"You'd rather be surprised by it?"

"Almost," she said petulantly. "Who wants to spend the next, I dunno, ten years, waiting to get pushed out of an elevator?"

"Could just avoid knitwear and take the stairs from here on out," he suggested.

"That's actually a brilliant point. But it still doesn't help to explain why you're having the dreams too."

"We'll think on it when you're not knackered, luv. Get some rest," he murmured, running a comforting hand up her arm. Pacified by his gesture, Charlie snuggled back into his chest and he mindlessly combed his fingers through her hair. He'd missed moments like this. Never had many with Dru, with her taste for pain and torture, but he'd been given a reprieve when she'd been sick and he'd enjoyed the gentleness. And now he had an armful of it.

A loud knock sounded at the crypt door upstairs, and Spike sighed in frustration as Charlie pulled away from the relaxed curve of his body, hopped out of bed and began rummaging around for her jeans.

"Sun hasn't even gone down yet," he groaned after a cursory glance at the silver alarm clock that he might have borrowed from the Hyperion. "Tell me you ordered delivery and whoever's knockin' is clutchin' a box o' wings, and is prepared to shove off after you hand him a few quid."

Her voice was muffled as she slipped a faded raglan t-shirt over her head. "Close. It's probably Willow and Tara."

"And that's just like delivery, is it?"

"I bet they brought herbs, which if you're really desperate, you could... uh, chew on the ones we don't need. And they probably won't be here for very long." As she tied her hair up into a dark waterfall of a ponytail, she glanced over to the bed that Spike hadn't budged from, the thin cotton sheet laying on top of him not doing much for concealment. "You should really think about putting on some pants. Also, a shirt would be of the good."

"Why's that? 'Fraid I'll scare off the sapphic witches with my man parts?" he asked wryly as she began climbing up the ladder.

"Doubtful. I just won't be able to concentrate if you're half-naked and leering at me from the other side of the room." She flashed a smile back down at him before disappearing through the opening.

* * *

"So I've been thinking a lot about what happened at the theater, when you tried to do a spell and then… zilch with the whammy. Would you be up for an experiment? Purely scientific," Willow was saying.

The scene laid out before him was bloody bizarre. If Spike had been asked a month ago if any of the white hats would ever have a social hour in his sodding bedroom, Dracula would have heard the echos of his laughter from Bran Castle or whatever molding pile of rocks the bugger was living under these days. But for some completely backwards reason, perhaps Spike's hatred of being alone, the sight filled him with contentment.

The three girls had made themselves comfy, sitting cross legged on the piles of oriental rugs laid out randomly on the downstairs crypt floor, and to his surprise, there wasn't a textbook or sparkly chunk of crystal to be seen. He'd also made himself comfortable, his jean-clad legs stretched out on the rumpled white bedlinens, and his shirt-covered back leaning up against the headboard. The leather bound collection of Poe's short stories resting in his hand was purely for appearances. There was no way he wasn't going to be keeping an eye whatever undertaking the witches planned on carrying out.

"Yeah, sure, experiment away. What'd you have in mind?" Charlie seemed eager to start, squirming in place as Willow began her explanation.

"Okay, so… magic ability can be taught, but it's mostly in the blood, right? Well, Spike drained yours after the Bleakgrave-cabin fiasco, so the only other blood in your system is the non-magicy demon blood you've been ingesting."

"You know, I hadn't thought of it that way, but it makes sense." Charlie glanced at Spike, but he was too busy mentally kicking himself for not thinking of the theory first to respond to her visual inquiry. He was also wary of whatever mojo-filled solution the witch was planning to propose.

In moments of crisis, Spike rarely gave Red's talents a second thought, but the non-essential magic situations she became involved with often had a way of going horrifically sideways. But as much as he disliked the idea of the witch going all Dr. Marie Curie-Frankenstein on the minor issue of evaporated magic, he didn't think Charlie would tolerate constantly sitting on the sidelines whenever there was a physical altercation.

The selfish part of him didn't want her getting her magic back at all. He thrived on being needed, loved playing the part of the defender, but with the chip in his head to keep him from injuring anything human, he knew it was an unreasonable desire.

Willow reached out and put her hands on Charlie's knee, refocusing the girl's attention. "So _don't_ freak out, but I wanna see what happens if you drink some of my blood."

And there it was. _Christ_. Thank everything unholy that it had nothing to do with a My-Will-Be-Done spell, and Spike gave the witch credit for offering herself up as the sacrificial lamb. It didn't exactly ease his mind, however. As any vampire worth their dust knew, blood was nothing to be trifled with, and Red's was thick with potent magic. But at least she hadn't suggested they go rustle up a Thricewise as a first course.

There was a long pause before Charlie opened her mouth again. "You're joking, right?"

"Not joking."

The witch who'd been quiet until that point cringed at the intensity in her girlfriend's tone. Obviously Red and Glinda hadn't gone over all the details of the experiment before arriving at the crypt. "Sweetie, are y-you sure? You're not the only one. You know, with magic in their blood..."

Willow sent Tara a reassuring smile. "Totally sure. All of the sure."

Charlie ran her hands through her hair, pressing her fingers against her scalp as she gave the redhead a skeptical look. "Willow… don't take this the wrong way, I like you a lot but this just feels all sorts of ethically wrong, and I wasn't planning on getting staked by Buffy anytime soon. Also, me and human blood, probably not on mixable terms. There's like a pheromone or something that makes you smell all sorts of untasty."

"I can't do much about the taste, but I already ran it by Buffy. I wouldn't say she was throwing ticker tape and confetti about it, but she gets it. I just can't imagine waking up one day and being without magic."

"To be honest, I was never great at it," Charlie said with a dismissive swish of her fingers, "so it feels more like I'm missing a pair of scissors or a useful power tool than something essential to who I am. Not that I wouldn't mind having it back. You ever try to wrap a birthday present without a pair of scissors handy?"

Tara tucked her dirty blonde hair out of her face as she eyed Charlie with genuine interest. "What kinds of things could you do?"

"Really basic spells. The non-ingredient kind. There's an all-purpose unlock spell that I learned. I could also move things, you know, push or pull them, make them float. Good for shoving annoyingly perseverant vampires away from the portals you need to get through," Charlie said, throwing Spike a provocative smirk, which he took as an open invitation for verbal warfare. "And I can make things change color."

Spike shut his book and tossed it off to the side of the mattress, edging a little closer to where the girls were sitting, "Very useful, bein' able to adjust the hues of whatever you'd like. Bet you got into some fun terrorizin' the posh bints at your local Clip N' Curl. But didn't you say there were four, pet?"

"What?"

"A whole quartet of mumbo-jumbo. Said you knew four when you were shootin' off a whole lotta nothin' at the theater. Just counted a trio."

"The last one's kinda stupid," Charlie said nonchalantly, shrugging it off as her cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

Willow and Tara looked at her expectantly, and Spike added his anticipatory stare to the building peer pressure.

Relenting with a sigh, Charlie dropped her hands into her lap. "It was like… an undo spell of sorts. Separating elements. It's hard to explain."

"What did you use it for?" Tara asked.

"I _tried_ to use it on a bunch of things, but it only worked a few times. Namely, on scrambled eggs."

"You scrambled eggs? Hey, if everyone could mojo up a freshly cooked breakfast, there'd be no need for cereal or pop tarts." Willow's lips suddenly twisted into a downward pout, as she pictured a world without sugary instant breakfast options. "Actually, that'd be kinda terrible."

"No, I de-scrambled the eggs. Made them runny again."

Spike snorted amusedly from the bed, wisely choosing not to say anything when three sets of eyes all glared at him at once.

"Well… I'm sure that a spell like that could be useful," Willow said kindly, "Like, what if you made scrambled eggs, but you were also making pancakes and ran out of eggs by the time you started making the batter? You could say, _sorry, scrambled eggs, today's not your day. Emergency extraction for pancakes_."

"Yeah, but the egg texture was all funky after. As in non-edible. I also accidently used it on my math homework once in high school. Resulted in a blank sheet of paper and a pile of graphite dust, so it's not ranking high on my list of favorite spells."

"So you're sayin' it's stuck at the very bottom of that towerin' list of... four," Spike drawled.

"There's a few other things that are about to get stuck at the bottom of a list if you keep talking down that road," Charlie threatened. Spike took the hint and said no more on the subject, though he was fairly convinced that her warning was made in jest.

"Okay, enough with the dilly-daddling! We're doing this? Let's do this!" Willow held her left arm out towards the brunette vampire.

Charlie wrapped her fingers around the witch's wrist and elbow, staring dubiously at the pale stretch of skin marked with translucent blue veins, and Spike leaned forward to get a better view. "Even thinking about doing this makes me really nauseous."

"M-Maybe pretend you're drinking something else?" Tara offered. "When I was five, I used to pretend that peas were were tiny p-planets and I was an angry space goddess devouring the unpious ones," she began to blush self-consciously as Willow and Charlie grinned at her, "and I'm just not even going to finish that story because what worked for five year old me probably won't work for vampire you."

"What if I just chased each sip with fruit juice?" Charlie eyed the newly reacquired downstairs liquor stash as though she'd find a bottle of Tropicana sitting among the collection of 40 proof.

Spike let out a puff of frustration from his elevated turf. "Oh, for god's sake, will you just bite her already? Watchin' a group of three-toed sloths play a game of cricket would take less time than watchin' this play out. You're not gonna feel less sick 'bout it an hour from now, so quit draggin' your feet and bein' a priss, pet."

All three girls regarded him with wide eyes at his irritated outburst, and Charlie rose to her feet and wisped by him, amiably patting him on the head as she passed. "Careful, Spike. You sound like a jealous, jealous vampire."

"Bloody well right, I do," he said, catching her hand and tracing his finger up the faint tattoos on her arm, heedless of the audience in front of him. Before she could pull away, he released her hand with a brush of his lips. "Haven't had a drop of fresh human in well over a year, and here it is bein' offered up to you on a silver platter, and you don't even want it. Well, give it here, I say, wouldn't want it goin' to waste."

"Are you jonesing for a headache that bad?" Charlie knelt down at the foot of the bed and grabbed the medical kit that was stowed underneath on the floor. She snapped the clasps open and pulled out a length of gauze and a few strips of tape.

"I think he just gets grouchy when he's hungry," Willow hypothesized, looking everywhere but at the overly generous amount of bandage Charlie was cutting.

"Well, there's blood in the fridge," the brunette vampire reminded him, pointing towards the upstairs as if he'd forgotten the location of where all the appliances were, and her shirt shifted enough to that he could see all the way down to her navel. "Help yourself."

His eyes burned into her, and he honestly couldn't decide if he was more hungry or horny as she stood up again. "Think I _will_ help myself," he said, his voice dipping into a husky purr.

" _Behave_ yourself." Though she said it sternly, Charlie's eyes were bright and she discretely mouthed the words "later" as she was facing Spike, turning around and feigning innocence and restraint in front of the two Scoobies in the room.

"Trollop," he muttered under his breath.

She sat back down next to Willow and gently took the girl's forearm, staring at it the same way a human would look at a piece of uncooked liver on their dinner plate. "Welp, here goes nothing." With one last groan of discontent, she let her fangs descend and tentatively bit into Willow's wrist.

His mind working overtime to keep his vampiric reactions in check, Spike compelled himself to stay in human form, scathingly envious of the hot meal and naturally very turned on by the sight of the vamp-girl on wincing-girl action. It was less than a minute before Charlie pulled her fangs out, sputtering and covering her mouth.

"Lookin' a little green around the gills, luv," Spike commented, though he could see there was another change in his progeny as well, small as it was. A tiny vibration seemed to thrum under her skin, too weak to be a pulse but too apparent to be a figment of his imagination.

"Do you need… some water?" Willow asked, "One of those cute, foldable air sickness bags?" As Charlie shook her head, her hand still clasped tightly over her lips, Tara wrapped a tight bandage around the two spots of blood that were welling up on Willow's skin, sealing the tape on the dressing with lingering touch.

The word "voilto" erupted from Charlie's lips as she suddenly thrust out her arm, and Spike was rendered speechless as he watched a bottle of his favorite whiskey go careening past his head and into Charlie's outstretched hand. She unscrewed the cap and took a few sips, sighing with relief once she'd washed all the blood down with the golden liquid. "I guess you really _are_ what you eat," she muttered, offering the bottle to both the girls, who vigorously declined.

"Well that worked…" the redhead chirped, shifting closer to her girlfriend and beaming excitedly at Charlie.

"Nothing personal, Willow, but you're not my favorite flavor. The magic on the other hand… might be worth the trip to Peptoville."

"Try something else! You know, for… science," the witch urged. Spike wondered if he should have voiced caution before Charlie drank the proverbial punch. She'd probably never contained so much magic before, and it seemed a little too much like handing the keys to a shiny new Boeing 747 to the kid who played X-Plane a few times on the library computer. At any rate, she seemed to be handling her new dose of power well enough, not spontaneously combusting or going all glow-bug again, so he let his concern dissipate for the time being.

"Hmmm." Charlie looked about the room, doubtless for an object to enchant, and Spike's muscles twitched in readiness to leap up and defend his book selection or what was left of his booze if she had any thoughts of testing her powers on them. Coming to a decision, she finally traipsed back over to the bed and laid her fingertips on the sheets. "Muttatio," she whispered.

The fabric turned to a deep wine color in the spots she touched, spreading outward as though she'd spilled a bottle of Pinot Noir on the bed. Spike went catapulting off the sheets before any of his person made contact with the spreading magic, unwilling to start a new fashion trend in either skin or apparel color. He'd dealt with enough mockery over one decade of his life, being called William the Bloody, he certainly didn't need a new catastrophe to bring the insulting moniker back to life.

Once the bedding became one solid color plane of red, Spike reached a cautious hand out to examine the it. "Always thought the crypt could use a woman's touch. Never meant it literally, but I suppose it's too late to argue the toss. Good thing I like it."

"I'm glad you like it too. It wasn't exactly the color I was going for, but close enough. Thanks, Willow. This is pretty great."

Willow and Tara crept in behind them. "Best thing to do now is see how long it takes to use the magic up," Willow said, admiring Charlie's handiwork.

"Wait… you want me to use _all_ of it? I don't want to waste it…"

"It'd be good to know what kind of a half-life it has," Willow explained. "I don't think you'll be able to regenerate it. So just keep track of what kind and how many spells you do, and in the meantime I'll see if I can come up with a more palatable source of magic juice.

"Anya might know someone," Tara suggested, an idea which Spike instantly disliked. Demon Girl probably _did_ know a bloody Thricewise.

"Good point. We'll talk to her." Willow let out a deep breath and dusted her hands off on her pants. " Alrighty, well, you know what to do, and we have a date with a slayer and her commando."

Charlie eyed the red-headed witch with surprise. "I thought you guys were hitting up the Bleakgrave compound tonight?"

"Yeah, that was tough-guy speak for hitting up the Bleakgrave compound tonight. We're just putting a cloaking spell on Buffy and Riley and then heading over to the Magic Box, so once we get the owl-thingimajig it'll be wham, bam, thank you ma'am. In- in a fast, completely non-sexual way."

"Sounds like you guys have it all worked out," Charlie said.

"I hope so. We'll reconvene tomorrow and go over some battle strategies. I think it'd be good if you both were there if it's not too, you know, sunny. Ten in the morning if you can make it, assuming everything goes to plan."

Charlie raised an imploring eyebrow in Spike's direction and he rolled his eyes in reluctant agreement, annoyed at how much of a pushover he was becoming. "Fine. But there better be some nosh at this soccer huddle. Not gonna listen to the Slayer drivel on about teamwork with an empty stomach." An amused look passed between the girls, which he chose to ignore.

Once the witches had finally departed, Charlie selected a variety of knick knacks lying around the room, and sat back down where she'd been sitting before. Determination settled over her face as she stretched and flexed her hands, and set to work.

Spike had every intention to read, even had the book open in his lap with his finger in the crease, but he couldn't for the unlife of him stop his eyes from flicking over to where Charlie was honing her magic after every single sodding sentence.

The sight was enthralling, similar to watching a good fight or sparring match, albeit with no violence, more subtlety, and on a much smaller scale. Her hand movements were graceful and became more precise with each attempt she made, pushing and pulling a pair of candles across the floor. After a short while, she was able to stack them on top of each other with only a hand gesture and a whispered sound.

A deck of cards that had been lying around from a week-old game of solitaire he'd played fell victim to her exercises next. It took her a few attempts, but she soon got the hang of suspending the cards in the air, making them dance in shapes and patterns, becoming bolder as she grew more comfortable with the magic.

Miniature cityscapes began to form, and then mythical animals, the cards shuffling themselves between each transition. Spike let out an unintentional gasp of appreciation when a dragon with wings made out of face cards began circling above her head. They dropped in a cascade of fluttering paper as her concentration broke, flustered at the notion that she was being observed as she practiced.

"Sorry, luv. Didn't mean to- it's just, you're bloody good at that."

"I'm not. Or at least I wasn't all that good before. It feels strange, this amount of power, like I'm wearing shoes that are the wrong size or something. I'm trying to get the hang of it, but feeling a teency bit self conscious about the re-learning it part."

"Should be catchin' up on my readin' anyhow. Fortunato isn't gonna wall himself up."

Turning himself away from where she was sitting, he forced himself to read, only occasionally glancing up to admire the shadows her cards were making on the wall in front of him. He had made it through several more stories and two thirds of the way though The Tell-Tale Heart when he felt something tickling his chest, and he looked down to find the buttons on his shirt pulling open on their own accord. His head shot up, and he turned to find Charlie leaning casually against the wall, smiling like the cat who got the canary.

"What are you playing at, Charlie Girl?" His voice was low and gravelly, and he marvelled at her ability to turn him on as quickly as if he were a light switch.

"Oh, you know, just doing some... " she bit her lip as she popped another one of his buttons open, "homework."

Spike wasn't even sure where he put his book down as he watched the desire roll off her in soft, tantalizing waves. "Want me to teach you a lesson, luv?" he asked, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side, in query. "You're already teacher's pet so you'll get an easy A."

"And what class do you teach, Mr. Spike? Physical Education? Women's Studies?"

"Anatomy," he replied with a devilish grin, sliding off the bed and stalking towards her.

"And what's your teaching style?" She didn't try to dodge him when he captured her waist between his hands.

"Prefer the Montessori approach," he said, smoothing his palms below the back pockets on her jeans, "Hands-on. Learn by doin'." In one lightning-fast move, he had her seated on top of the rickety dresser, uncaring of how many things went clattering to the floor as he pushed apart her knees and stepped between her thighs.

He moved himself in slow, torturous thrusts against the denim barrier that separated them, tasted the tangy, fiery decadence of blood and whiskey in her mouth, nipped at her earlobe as she gripped his shoulders and rubbed back against him with equal pressure.

"Tell me how much you want this, baby," he growled hotly in her ear, "Tell me how much you want me to fill your quim, make you come all over me. Tell me you want me to drink you up like a sweet, thick cordial."

"Want you. God, I want you." Though she was practically screaming it in every line of her frame, he wanted to hear more. He wanted to claim every bit of her, even the words that came out of her mouth.

"Not enough, pet. Gonna make you beg for it. What do you want, Charlie?"

Her lips parted and she looked as though she'd been drugged with lust, eyes wild and demanding more of his touch. He leaned in close and nibbled at her tempting bottom lip, chuckling as she moaned desperately into his mouth.

"Say it," he whispered, a command despite the volume of his voice.

"I want you so deep inside me that I don't-"

A loud rapping sound emanated from the upstairs. They both froze. When another muffled noise sounded from upstairs, Spike let out a torrent of curses under his breath.

"Expectin' someone?" he asked.

She frowned and looked up towards the opening in the ceiling. "No."

Whether it be a demon or a spotted, infantile Bambi lurking around the entrance to his crypt, it was about to get the thrashing of its life. "Don't you move an inch," he warned her. "Be back in a tic."

Still muttering expletives, he crawled up the ladder with the frustrating revelation that erections and ladder rungs were the worst possible combination, and crossed the floor of his living area. He jerked open the door with more force than even Buffy gave it, and peered out at the retreating figure in the darkness. "Oh, for god's sake," he groaned. "What the bleedin' hell are _you_ doin' here?

* * *

 _A/N: So this was a long one... I was going to split it, but then I thought... nahhh. I've been sick all week (the kind where I should be changing my marital status to "In a committed relationship with Kleenex") and I had a few days off to write. Thanks so much for all the favs this past week, and to RFK22 and kcheslock for their kind reviews! xoxo_


	26. Chapter 26- Tightropes

Rupert Giles stood outside the crypt, halfway between the door and the first row of tombstones but facing neither, as though he'd been pacing around in a circle. His hair was mussed from running his hands through it and the man looked downright… twitchy. The watcher's ruffled presence signified one of two things: that, a.) there was an enormous, apocalyptically bad problem or, b.) that Buffy had filled Rupert in about Charlie's family ties to the teacher and he was feeling overly sentimental on the probable eve of battle. Either way, Spike didn't feel like dealing with it.

"Thought Red said you'd be holed up at the daycare center you call a retail shop, overseein' the big fireworks spell that's gonna knock out Bleak's personal savin's." Spike leaned heavily against the doorjamb and hoped that if he put enough scorn into his tone, that Rupert would leave the merry way he came.

Giles turned back towards the crypt, looking uncomfortable as he took a few hesitant steps forward. Well, bugger. "Yes, actually I am. I was," he said, looking distractedly at the foliage, "Did you do something with the shrubbery around your crypt? It looks… well kempt."

"Out with it, Rupes," Spike said, losing what little patience he had, "What are you skulkin' about for?"

The watcher scratched his arm. "Um, this is rather awkward, but I need you to do something for me."

There was a long pause, in which Spike waited for… something. A punchline, perhaps. An explanation. A sodding bribe would have been appreciated, even if it was just a Get-Out-Of-A-Staking free card for the next time he was caught doing something that wasn't on the slayer's list of acceptable vampire behavior. "Is this the part where you pull out your wallet, or do you think I'm doin' you a favor outta the kindness of my cold, dead heart?"

"Neither, actually. I need you to go get the Hepetalium stone for the coffer destroying spell from an old business associate of mine."

Spike blinked at him, unsure for a moment if he'd understood the request correctly. "And you thought it'd be a nice change of pace to farm out an errand boy to fetch your trinkets? Get it yourself, Watcher. If there's a fight… that I can fight in… come find me." Spike turned and began to shut the door.

"Well, that's just it," Giles said hurriedly, putting a hand out to stop the door from closing and disregarding the muscle that was tightening in Spike's jaw. "I can't go get it myself. He refuses to do business with me, and I need everyone else at the shop doing preparations for the spell. Mostly everyone, that is."

Spike narrowed his eyes at the watcher, growing increasingly annoyed at the lack of details and expectation that Spike would just drop whatever he was doing to be a team player. "And just why would this savvy businessman not want to square his deals with an upstandin' member of society such as yourself?"

"I… I… might have called him a money-grabbing maggot weasel, and swore I'd never do business with him again."

"You fiend." Spike's face split with a mocking grin.

"He was trying to stiff me on a shipment of newt eyes for the store!" Giles said indignantly.

"Poor Watcher. You might need to grovel at his feet. Shame I'll be too busy not bein' there to watch it happen."

Just as Spike was about to attempt to close the door for a second time, the sound of light footsteps echoed on the concrete behind him, and he could almost hear the sound of his planned evening of debauchery slowly evaporating into the ozone.

"Oh, hey Giles!" Charlie said brightly, placing her hands on Spike's arms and pressing her chin against his shoulder so she could see out the narrow opening in the door.

"Oh. Oh, um, hello. Charlie," the watcher stuttered, slipping off his glasses and wiping his forehead briefly with the back of his hand. Spike then realized that there was another reason for the watcher's odd behavior besides his untimely need of a favor. Seemed like Buffy had informed Giles of Charlie's relationship to the teacher. Spike hadn't realized it was possible for the man to get any more awkward, but apparently he still had miles to go.

"Thought I told _you_ not to move." Spike glanced irritably at the brunette peeking out from behind him.

"You did," she replied, raising an entertained eyebrow at him when he gave her a look that asked why she'd ignored his request. "Sorry, _master_ , but the Sire-Progeny contract clearly states that I don't have to take orders between the hours of noon and midnight on weekdays and weekends. What are we talking about? This looks serious."

"Rupes here wants to send me on a ramble to the magical five-and-dime because he's not allowed to shop there anymore."

Giles let out a noise akin to a clucking hen. "Must you make everything sound so disagreeable?! I'm merely asking that you to walk to a house and pick up an ingredient that we need."

"I think we can handle a shopping list of one item, Spike," Charlie said. "Where are we going?"

With a sigh, Spike released his grip on the door, opening it wide so the Charlie could freely converse with the man outside. Reaching into his pants pocket, Giles pulled out a slip of blue-lined paper, and handed it to to the girl. Spike glanced down at the note as she unfolded it, though he could barely read the cramped handwritten address and comments regarding the stone, even with his enhanced vampire sight. It looked like the watcher had written it with an ink-dipped sewing pin.

Charlie frowned at the paper for a moment and stuffed it into her pocket. Apparently she was going, and since Spike wasn't about to let her do anything that even glimmered of Bleakgrave without backup, he supposed he'd be going by default. "So who is this guy?" she asked.

"He's had to change his name and location so many times due to angry customers that I'm not certain what he's calling himself these days," Giles replied.

"Sounds like a piece of work," Spike commented drolly. "I like him already."

"And you thought it was a good idea to do business with someone like that?" Charlie asked, looking dubiously at the sensible shop owner that prided himself on his logic and practicality.

"Well, the market for rare magical items was limited to local sellers until eBay came along," Giles explained, "and even then, I don't always have many options. The Hepetalium stone looks a little like citrine, by the way, very glassy and clear, lemony yellow. Make sure he doesn't try to give you something cheaper."

Charlie nodded, animatedly drumming her fingers against the side of her leg. "I know what they look like actually, I've seen them before."

"Yes, yes of course," the watcher mumbled, blanching again. "He'll probably try to swindle you out of more, but it shouldn't be more than thirty or so. Just in case..." Giles pulled out a generous stack of folded bills and handed it to Charlie.

Spike regarded the currency slipping into the pocket of Charlie's jeans with sudden interest. A few packs of smokes might be in his future if they haggled well. "Sure you don't need anythin' else if there's leftover funds, Watcher? Some doilies for your table, perhaps? Enchanted tea set?" His eyes flickered over Rupert's attire for the evening. "A sweater that doesn't resemble a carpet?"

"Yes, very amusing Spike. You can keep the change if it makes you feel better, and perhaps you should use it towards the purchase of a nice, comfortable couch to sleep on." The thinly veiled threat came at him out of the blue, and Spike knew for certain that the watcher was all sorts of filled in on the Kalderash Situation. Fortunately, Charlie seemed too preoccupied with her own thoughts to question the content of the retort.

And while he wasn't worried to the point of treating Giles, or Buffy, or any of the Scoobies with anything resembling respect, Spike realized that he needed to tread carefully as far as his actions went. A word from anyone on the subject would be enough to send his charade of No Previous Kalderash Involvement spectacularly to the ground, and he wasn't ready to handle it. Yet.

"And Charlie, I… there's something that we should discuss... " the words on the watcher's lips faded as he whipped his head in the direction of the sound of the loud, crunching footsteps that were headed towards the crypt. "Ah, but I suppose it can wait for now. Xander! Right on time!"

* * *

It was raining slightly when three purposeful figures set out towards Jefferson Road. The drizzle wasn't so heavy that it left puddles on the ground, but it was just enough to leave a film of moisture on everything and make Spike even more grouchy than he already was.

Adding to the unenjoyable ambiance, the pungent scent of garlic and onion that was wafting out of the bag of chips in Xander's hand was only slightly less obnoxious than the deafening way the boy ate them. Even Charlie looked as though she would rather be walking on the opposite sidewalk.

"So explain to me again what the plan is," Xander demanded, wiping his greasy fingers on his pants, and Spike wondered who had the misfortune of doing his laundry.

Spike cocked an eyebrow at him, purposely speeding up his gait in the hopes that the Scooby might choke if he tried to eat and walk quickly at the same time. "Need me to draw you a diagram, Whelp?"

"Actually, yes, that would be immensely helpful," Xander said, popping another three chips into his mouth at once. "Why don't you whip some paper out of your overly enormous coat and get going on that."

"Sure thing mate, but it might take a few days to draw it out for the likes of you. And I'm fresh outta crayons." Spike flashed a snide grin when Xander glared at him.

Charlie moved to the other side of Spike, effectively becoming a physical barrier between the bickering pair. "We're just meeting with this guy that Giles knows, and buying a Hepetalium stone from him," she explained patiently to Xander. "Apparently he's kind of an ass, and Giles pissed him off last time so he won't do business with him."

"Well, yeah, I got that part. I just don't understand what _I'm_ needed for."

"Ask myself that question on a daily basis. Still haven't got it figured," Spike muttered, feeling around in his pocket for his pack of smokes. He lit a cigarette, and puffed on it as he waited for the skies to inevitably open up and snuff out what little enjoyment he was gleaning, par for the course of how the night seemed to be going.

"I believe, and I'm quoting Giles directly here, that _the safety and sanity of everyone currently prepping for the spell at the Magic Box_ depends on you being here with us." Charlie sent a slightly guilty, somewhat amused smile in the boy's direction.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Xander asked.

Spike barked out a laugh, smoke billowing out of his mouth as though he were a delighted dragon. "Means you're annoyin' the shit outta them and they can't bloody concentrate. Oh, Watcher, you do amuse me so."

Xander stopped walking, his thick eyebrows pulling together. "Giles probably just didn't trust you with the Hepatitis stone," he said, sounding more sure of himself than he probably was.

"I think we'll need to stop at the pharmacy for some hardcore antibiotics if he's acting as buyer," Charlie murmured quietly to Spike as Xander tipped his head back and shook remainder of the chip crumbs into his mouth.

Smirking in response, Spike threw his arm around her as they turned down Thousand Oaks Drive, and she leaned her head against the dryness of his t-shirt. Running errands for the white hats was about as low as it got for a vamp who was once considered the Big Bad, but the solid weight pressed against his side was enough to ease most of the irritation of the situation.

Tossing his empty bag of chips into a trash receptacle by a park bench, Xander caught back up and watched the pair of vampires with no small amount of interest. "So you two are really a thing, huh?"

Spike batted his eyes at the Scooby and gave him an ironic smile, as he pulled Charlie a little closer. "That a problem with you, Harris?"

"No, no. I'm just trying to picture it… a hundred years from now… living in some basement apartment, Charlie's working two dead end jobs trying to afford enough money to pay for pig's blood for your seventeen vampire children, rent's due, the refrigerator keeps breaking..."

"You miss the class about the blood and the bees, mate? The only way you get seventeen undead ankle-biters is if you eat an orphanage." Spike thought about it, and looked down at the girl tucked under his arm, "Which we could do. If you wanted…." He wasn't remotely serious, especially since the Annoying One had been the most vexatious thing he'd ever had to put up with, but he did enjoy getting a rise out of her.

"Children that never grow up? I've seen _Interview with the Vampire_. No thanks," Charlie snorted, turning to arch an eyebrow at Xander. "And dare I ask, where's Spike in this thrilling prediction?"

"He got busted for trying to sell monster eggs on the black market, so vampire jail. Or he's dust, probably from saying something sarcastic at the wrong time."

Spike had always planned on going out in a blaze of glory, either fighting a slayer in an epic battle, or… no. Fighting a slayer in an epic battle was pretty much the only way he wanted to dust. Still, even he had to admit that there was more than one occasion that his running mouth had almost ended his unlife, though there were just as many occasions where he'd been able to talk his way out of a dustpan.

"Can I at least have a nice vacation home in southern Italy?" Charlie pulled herself away from Spike to aim a finger at the bogus, garlic-breathed clairvoyant. "That future is the worst, Xander."

"It's not that bad! There'll totally be flying cars by then," Xander pointed out.

Charlie rested her hands on her hips, half-heartedly scowling at him, but Spike could tell by her tone that she was enjoying the sibling-like back and forth. "You're fired as fortune teller."

"Like you can do better," Xander scoffed. "Actually, you probably could do better, being from a gypsy clan family and all. Miss Calendar never read my fortune though, just told me if I didn't stop hanging out in the computer room during third period she'd make me do the homework. Which, as it turned out, was a very accurate prediction."

Spike desperately moved his lips in a silent bid to get Xander's attention, failing miserably since the Scooby had all of a sudden taken a fixed interest in an episode of _Boy Meets World_ lit up on a television screen in a living room window they were passing by. Spike decided that he'd far rather act out his own episode of _Boy Meets Oncoming Car_.

"Who's Miss Calendar?" Charlie asked, and Spike made a last ditch effort to shut Xander up, savagely waving his arms behind Charlie's head, and finally giving Harris the two fingered salute and tossing the stubby end of his cigarette at him when he still didn't look Spike's way. The chip in his brain fired in mild protest.

"Jenny. Oh, I keep forgetting that wasn't her real name! Janna. You know, your aunt… that Giles told you about…" Xander's voice grew timid as his eyes turned back to Charlie and then _finally_ flicked onto Spike's irate face, "because Giles said he was going to tell you…"

Charlie brought the walk to a grinding halt, gripping Xander's forearms with a force that was sure to leave bruises. "Janna was here? And you knew she was my aunt? Why hasn't anyone told me? Where is she?"

"Um, no, yes, because Buffy only just found and we were waiting for Giles to talk to you… and what was the last question again? Also, oww, vamp strength."

"Sorry," she said, loosening her grasp, but losing none of the trepidation that was written across her face. "Where's Janna?"

"I'm really not the person that you should be hearing this from… but there was a... um… an accident," Xander's eyes met Spike's again, noticeably unsure of what to say. Spike raised his eyebrows in expectation and crossed his arms against his chest. Xander was the one to blow the lid off the big secret, Xander would be the one who got to tell the sorry tale.

"Sort of an accident," Xander continued nervously, "There was this whole thing with… pelvises… and Angel temporarily losing his soul, and Jenny, uh, Janna, was pulled in as… collateral damage. I'm sorry, it really should have been Giles to tell you this. He's better with things like… words."

"Angel, as in my grandsire, Angel?"

Spike nodded when Charlie directed her question at him. "Tall, Dark, and Tiresome has a bit of a mean streak when he's not feelin' soulful."

"Do I want details?" she asked, and Spike brought to mind the night Angelus had come home, gloating about his game of cat and mouse with the terrified teacher in the empty high school. Charlie seemed to read the thoughts running through his head, and her face hardened into a cool mask as she refocused her attention straight ahead of her.

"You alright, kitten?"

Charlie blew out a long breath, and began walking again, Spike and Xander following suit behind her. "No. It's been years since I last heard from her, and I made my peace a long time ago that she was gone." Then she let out a string of creative expletives, some combinations of which Spike had never even heard before. "But Angel? Why the fuck is he living it up in a hotel in L.A. like nothing happened? And why didn't Buffy tell me right away?"

"Buffy wanted to let Giles know first," Xander explained. "Him and Jenny were sort of together, and I think Buff was worried that Giles would have an aneurysm or something if she didn't break it to him with the slowness of Gachnar walking through peanut butter. And then Giles wanted to talk to you before anyone else did, so no points for Xander tonight. As for the Angel thing… yeah, I'm with you there."

"Janna and Giles? This is so weird, like in a zero-degrees of separation kind of way."

"Yeah, no kidding. Uh, not to change the subject, but is that 742 Jefferson? I think that's our guy's place," Xander noted, pointing to a very normal looking suburban bungalow on the corner.

"Looks like," Charlie said, running her hands over a face a few times. "I guess I'll put my feelings away until later." Unsure of what to say to make it better, Spike reached out to stroke her shoulder. She clutched his hand under hers, and he was gladdened that she didn't seem to be upset with him for not saying anything sooner. Then again, he hadn't exactly implied that he'd known who she was related to.

The three of them ambled past the overgrown hedges in front of the pale grey dwelling and up the cobbled pathway. A floodlight on a sensor attached to the house's tapered columns bathed them in blinding luminescence as they moved up the steps and onto the porch.

Xander squinted at the peep hole on the door. "Do we ring the doorbell? Or is there a secret knock?"

Spike shrugged and pounded his fist heavily against the wood grain. Someone was definitely inside the house. He could hear footsteps and somewhere, someone was blathering on about American football. Spike thumped the door again.

"Christ, take it easy," was the muffled exclamation from behind the entranceway. "That's solid oak you're maiming with your hammer hands." A man opened the door, sending an airborne wave of cheap cologne and Mountain Dew into the night, the very scent of douchebaggery if Spike ever decided to bottle and sell it. The straggly soul patch under his lip didn't really help his case either.

"Dodger?" Charlie's surprised reaction quickly gave way animosity as her eyes began to flare viridian and the tips of her fangs peeked past her lip, though the change didn't seem to register with her. "I really should've guessed it was you."


	27. Chapter 27- Fair Weather Foes

Spike gave the salesman who was standing at the door thorough once-over. Probably early thirties, with a mess of dirty-blond hair, handsome in a smarmy, puffed-up way. The man's nickname had been floating around the underbelly of demon society for the past few months, usually followed by growls and curses regarding his shoddy magic-related merchandise and high prices. He was also known to cheat at poker, but Spike couldn't bring himself to fault the vendor for something as unobjectionable as _that_.

"You know this tosser?" Spike asked, regarding the harsh, flinty way that Charlie was still staring at the man.

"Unfortunately," she acknowledged. "He's the human equivalent of styrofoam. Everyone tries to get rid of him, but he never goes away. How many people did you double-cross last month, Dodge? Thought you were living over by The Bronze."

"Aw, look at the bartender, she's got teeth now. Cute," Dodger snickered, ignoring her question. He reached out to get a closer look at her mouth, and Charlie scowled and smacked his hand away.

"I had teeth before, you lowlife. They're just really sharp now."

"I can see that. Well, it might not be raining cats and dogs at the moment, but you all look totally miserable anyway. Come on in, take a load off," he said, making a sweeping gesture into his house.

"Let me deal with him," Charlie murmured to Spike before she passed through the doorway, following behind Xander into a sea of cardboard boxes and 1970's era wood panelling. She hadn't waited for any nod or word of consent from Spike, and he let out a displeased sigh before trailing in after the rest of his party.

Nothing embellished the living room walls other than box-crowded shelving, and nothing covered the fatigued wooden floors, indicating that Dodger had either taken minimalist decorating to a whole new level or had indeed just moved in. It looked like a miniature warehouse. From where he stood, Spike could see a hallway lined with stacked shipping containers, presumably leading to the areas where the salesman stored the rest of his stock.

As far as unreputable businesses went, the room seemed passable enough. Spike had certainly been in far worse places to procure the occasional map or nefarious knicknack. At least the place wasn't crawling with hired security or someone's irritating minions.

Dodger sat down behind a clunky metal desk on the far end of the room, its surface covered in messy stacks of receipts, crystals, and various small artifacts. He waved a lazy hand at a russet corduroy couch and a low coffee table on the other side. "I'm still waiting on office chairs, but the couch is cozy. Broke it in myself."

Charlie looked at the upholstery distastefully, and judging from the numerous stains on the fabric and the peculiar scents in the room, Spike couldn't blame her. No one moved to sit down.

"Yeah, no thanks. We're here on quick business," Charlie said, muttering something about fire and Lysol under her breath.

Putting his feet up on the desk, Dodger peered out from between a pair of expensive looking sneakers. "Who are you dudes, anyway?" he asked, looking thoughtfully over at Spike and Xander. His eyes had a shrewdness that didn't seem to jive with the rest of his moronic appearance, and any shred of trust that Spike might have had for the salesman vanished like Anya at Easter time.

"We work together," Xander stated quickly.

"Willy finally got some extra help, huh? Gotta say, you two look a little rough around the edges for busboys," Dodger commented. He returned his attention back to Charlie, his eyes roaming over her in a boldly licentious way. "If you need more of those fuzzy garnishes for the bar, I can't give you as good a deal as last time I stopped by, but we might be able to work something out."

One of Charlie's brows arched in annoyance. "After the last batch gave half the customers mange? I don't think so, this is about a different matter."

"So I guess this is about our chat in the stockroom, then? Knew you'd come around eventually. Oh, and I've got a new line for you! Wanna hear it?" Dodger gave her a buttery smile that set Spike's teeth so on edge that a rumbling growl involuntarily vibrated from his throat. The man didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't seem to care.

"Not remotely, so how about we cut to the commerce part and quit with the bullshit?"

"I'll tell you anyway," Dodger grinned. "Want to know what I'd do if I could change the alphabet?"

Charlie stared at him, her face as cold as the blood stored in the crypt's refrigerator. "You'd fuck up the English language to the point where books were illegible and speech was impossible?"

"So hilarious, and yet, so hostile!" Dodger chuckled loudly, "That's why I like you. But no, no. I'd put the D in U. Get it? The D in you?"

"So you'd pronounce your name _Uodger_? I don't... Ohhh..." Xander's face lit up with sudden comprehension. " _That_ D. I get it now. But I kinda wish I didn't."

Spike could sense Charlie's indignation as she flexed her fingers angrily, and he hung on to his last thread of self control as she sent a tart response to the salesman. "Funny, I was thinking it'd be better to change the whole alphabet to shorthand so it'd take less time for me to call you an asshole."

"Oh, come on. I'm pretty irresistible!" Dodger's priggish smile couldn't possibly get any wider, and Spike couldn't possibly hold his tongue any longer.

"You _are_ very irresistible, mate. In fact, I'm barely resistin' tearin' out your still-beatin' heart with my bare hand and usin' it as demon bait, but maybe you can convince me otherwise." Spike vamped out in an attempt to strike some fear into the heart of the stupid wanker, useless as it might be. "We're lookin' to pick up one of those Hepetalium stones. If you've got one, brilliant, we'll take it. If not, I might pare your blood count down to the negative digits just for shits and grins."

Dodger didn't even flinch at Spike's new demonic appearance or his threats, crossing his arms and gleefully leaning back even further in his chair. "Ha ha! My fiery little bartender has a champion. But if you think that I sell to the demon community without being protected from the likes of you, think again. No Dodger snacks for you, Sir Bleach-A-Lot, you can put your fangs away."

Headache be damned, the only thing stopping Spike from shredding the man was Charlie's hand that suddenly wound around his wrist.

"Look buddy, you seem like a very…" Xander faltered as he searched for a moderately polite description. "Er, you like money, right? We've got money. But enough with the creepiness and the insultyness, or else you're gonna be squishy pieces on the floor the old fashioned way and I'll probably lend a hand or two."

"Alright, I can see none of you are in the mood for a joke. No need for threats and posturing. To business then." Dodger sucked in a deep breath through his nose, looking up at the ceiling as he thought up a fee for his merchandise. "Eighty bucks for the stone."

"They're worth thirty," Charlie protested.

"Then go somewhere that sells them for thirty, princess. And _don't_ try to negotiate," he said, pointing a finger at her as she opened her mouth to argue. "It's hot watching you try to haggle, but there's not going to be any bending unless it involves you and the couch."

" _That's_ it, you wank-"

"Stop it! I can take care of myself," Charlie hissed in Spike's ear. He relented, barely, and only because he figured he could pay off a few very willing, swindled demons to beat the ever-living viscera out of Dodger later.

Charlie began to move forward, the lines of her body tense and controlled, and Spike wondered if he was about to watch her attempt to eat her second human. But instead of attacking him, she stopped a few feet from the desk and pulled a bundle of fives out of her pants pocket. She waved it in the salesman's direction. "You don't touch this until I see it. And if there is anything, and I mean _anything_ , wrong with this stone, I will find you, and I will end you."

With a sly little smile, Dodger cocked his head at the group. "Sounds like Willy needs it for something important. What's he planning on doing with it?"

There was a long stretch of quiet, a moment of silence for the impending death of their paper-thin cover story.

"Profit enhancer."

"Drink additive."

"Paperweight."

All three replies were uttered at the same time, and Spike could practically feel the uneasy tension that began to flood the room like a heavy fog. Wasn't going to end well.

"Right," Dodger said blandly as he righted himself in his chair and began opening and shutting little drawers in his desk. After a few pulls, he lifted out a roughly cut, deep amber stone, and held it aloft for them to view for a few seconds.

"See, here's the thing," Dodger tossed and caught the rock in the palm of his hand, once, twice, three times, "I dropped by Willy's the other day, and do you know what he told me when I asked after you?" He leveled Charlie with an irritated squint, " _That you were fired_. And something tells me that Willy didn't hire Cujo and Lassie here to keep his tables clean. Or at all. Furthermore, there's only two uses for this type of stone, but the one I'm concerned about rhymes with _provoking goals_."

" _Strokin' poles_? Seems like you'd be the expert, lonely life of the failed Cassanova and all." Spike was now completely certain that the rendezvous would end in violence, and he was more than happy to do his part to speed the process along, especially if it meant not having to listen to Dodger anymore.

" _Revoking souls_ , you belligerent ass. And it's suspicious, coming from a group of lying individuals such as yourselves, because I happen to know of a very important magician that showed up in town recently who would be mightily displeased if anyone was meddling in his affairs. I'd prefer to stay on his good side. Hell, I'd prefer any side he wanted to give me. So here's what we're going to do..." Dodger stood and gave a sharp, ear-piercing whistle. "My guys are going to keep an eye on you while I go get in touch with him. Then, barring any... complications, we'll renegotiate."

Two giant men, clad all in black like bouncers at an overpriced night club, raced out of one of the back rooms and stood in front of Dodger.

"No one leaves until I say so," the salesman ordered them, and they moved swiftly to block the front door.

With one last pointed look at his odd group of hostages, Dodger turned and took the same hallway the men had come from. Spike glanced at Charlie and Xander, both of them beginning to look panicked and on high alert, their eyes entreating him to do something. _Anything_.

"Any chance you blokes aren't human?" Spike asked, turning to look hopefully up at the two towering sentries. One had dark hair, one had blond hair, and neither looked like they'd been hired for their brains.

"Shapeshfter," the brunette one shrugged. That, at least, was one small mercy.

"Much obliged, mate," Spike growled through a mouthful of freshly materialized fangs. He pitched himself forward, throwing his shoulder ferociously into the dark-haired guard's side, as Xander stepped out of the way just in time to avoid being collided with.

"Charlie, sweetheart!" Spike yelled, as he ducked a headbutt, "Mind puttin' a cork in the mouth of that salesman of yours 'fore he goes all Deep Throat on us?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie dash in the direction that Dodger had gone, and then Spike turned his attention back to giant in front of him.

The shapeshifter was a dirty fighter. He went straight for Spike's face and wasn't above hair pulling, wrapping his thick fingers into Spike's tresses and punching him right in the bridge of the nose.

Hard.

Wrenched backwards, he felt the burn spreading over his nose and into his cheeks, and then the inevitable cool trickle of blood dripping down over his lips. Still immobilized, Spike retaliated with a bone-cracking kick to the demon's shin.

The shifter released his hold with a roar, and suddenly Spike's attention was captured by a black button-down shirt that fluttered to the ground, torn into multiple ragged pieces. It was then that Spike realized he was no longer fighting a gigantic, hulking human, but an even more gigantic, more hulking fyarl demon.

"Oi! A fyarl?" he cried, horrified at the development. "Shiftin's not on your bleedin' list of attributes! What'd you do, follow the yellow bricks to Bleakgrave's house?"

"Upgrade!" The fyarl roared in response, reaching out for Spike's hair again. Obviously a wider vocabulary wasn't part of the package deal.

Spike managed to extricate the fyarl's fingers from its death grasp in his hair with a sharp knee to the demon's groin. Sometimes you had to fight dirty fighting with more dirty fighting. And sometimes, as Xander was demonstrating, you had to fight with whatever's available. The hard ceramic stem of a table lamp shattered over the human guard's head as Xander stood triumphantly on the arm of the couch behind him. The maneuver didn't seem to injure the sentry much, but at least he looked momentarily stunned.

As Spike shoved the fyarl into a row of shelves, he saw Charlie go flying backwards out the door Dodger had gone through, landing on her side with a yelp. She wiped the back of her hand across her lip, smearing her fingers with crimson, and a wave of frustration washed over Spike. He felt hobbled. Was ridiculous, really, that the chip couldn't differentiate between evil humans and good ones.

Dodger sauntered back into the room, his palm pressed stiffly against some wicked looking gouges on his face. The previous guise of arrogant, lecherous businessman was completely gone, replaced by the calculating expression that Spike had seen lurking behind his eyes earlier.

In a moment of recklessness, Spike decided to make sure that the salesman really was human. The shapeshifter wasn't what he thought it'd be, so it was possible that the salesman was no longer… well, man. Leaping forward, he dodged the fyarl and threw a bloodthirsty punch towards Dodger.

Big mistake.

Bolts of lightening-like pain shattered through Spike's skull before his fist connected with any part of Dodger, and he tumbled to his knees, yelling in agony. Something behind him, probably the demon again, took advantage of Spike's incapacitated state, dragging him across the wood floor and flinging him like one of Drusilla's dolls into the front of the metal desk. With a groan, Spike hoisted himself back onto his knees, attempting to survey the battleground that was Dodger's home.

Though dazed and bleary-eyed, he still managed to spot Charlie pulling herself back up off the floor and going after Dodger again. Her punches were sloppy and she had nothing that resembled technique, but he gave her credit for speed and pure tenacity. He cringed as Dodger's tightly fisted knuckles connected with her stomach, and she doubled over in pain.

"Should be stronger than him, pet, he's human," he yelled over the chaos, ducking and rolling out of the way of an incoming, size sasquatch foot.

He could have sworn he heard her roll her eyes. "No kidding, Sherlock. I think he's juiced up on something!"

"And you aren't?"

"Oh. Duh," she said, sounding annoyed with herself. She whispered a word of incantation and an extremely shocked looking Dodger was thrown back against the wall as though he'd been hit by a mac truck. The boxes on the shelves in the room shook with the force, several dumping their contents out onto the floor, and a plume of dust billowed out from the depression in the drywall. Spike stared blankly at the aftermath, momentarily dumbfounded by the sheer amount of power that Charlie had summoned.

"Damn. Willow blood is awesome!" Charlie exclaimed, examining her hands in astonishment as Tweedledemon and Tweedledumb decided to tag team Spike.

The fyarl put him in a vice-like choke hold while the giant human tried to punch a few tunnels into Spike's ribcage. To his credit, Xander was kicking profusely at the horned guard holding Spike, though it was about as effective as a mosquito dive-bombing a bear. "A little less Discovery Channel... and a tad... more help would be 'preciated, Hermione," Spike managed to grunt out.

"Right. On it." Charlie mumbled the incantation again, sending the guards _and_ Spike reeling backwards into the wall opposite the one Dodger had been thrown into. "Oooh, Sorry!" she called out.

"Bloody hell," Spike groaned as he clutched his head. There were more places on his body that hurt than didn't. The human guard was at least down for the count, but Spike felt as though he was almost there himself. He shoved the heavy human off of him and shifted himself behind the half-conscious fyral demon, slipping an arm around its neck and pulling back tightly to cut off its air supply.

At some point during Spike's role as the vampire filling in a sentinel sandwich, Dodger had managed to pull himself out of the Dodger-sized crater in the wall, and he was beginning to stalk towards Charlie.

"You bitch. You'll pay for this," the man raged.

"I'll make the check out to your mom," Charlie shot back. "She still pays your rent, right?"

His progeny had fire in her eyes, and Spike recognized the familiar look of battlelust. She was feeling untouchable. Confident. He'd seen it a thousand times on a thousand faces, in a thousand fights and it usually didn't end well. He clenched his arm and put more pressure into his suffocating hold as the fyral flailed against him.

"And while you're at it, you can put these on my tab too." Charlie made an abrupt motion with her hands and several shelves of boxes stocked with ebony jars went torpedoing through the air, pummeling the salesman with massive waves of shattered glass and liquid. Dodger crouched low, wrapping his arms around his head, and waited until the last of the boxes had done their damage.

Covered in something that smelled like formaldehyde, and looking like the devil himself, Dodger straightened, glowering and striding menacingly towards her once more. Undeterred, Charlie held out her hands again. "Mittent," she hissed, casting one hand towards the heavy desk.

Nothing happened.

"Mittent!" she repeated harshly.

Still, nothing happened, and Charlie began to look panic-stricken as Dodger began to smile, taking his sweet time closing the distance between them, seeming to relish the fear that had crept into her face.

The fyral under Spike's arm finally stopped moving, and he gave the demon's neck one last squeeze to make sure it was really unconscious. He thrust it off and braced his arms against the floor to pull himself up, ignoring the shooting pains that were radiating through his torso. Then Spike began to move towards the raving salesman, readying himself for another chip-induced brain blitz.

Dodger was paused a few feet away from Charlie, regarding her with the delighted grin of someone about to get exactly what they wanted. "What's wrong, princess? All out of powers? I'm gonna make you wish you'd taken me up on my offer. By the time I'm finished with you-"

The salesman's boastful speech was cut off as Xander launched himself at the man, bulldozing into his waist and knocking him to the ground. As Harris took a few retaliatory blows to the gut from Dodger, Charlie took the opportunity to scramble towards the pile of shelving debris, snatching up one of the loose boards.

She returned to the grappling men, and Dodger stopped wrestling with the Scooby long enough to sneer at her as she towered over them, the panel clenched tightly behind her back. "Yeah, go ahead. Bite me, bitch," he taunted, staring up at her from the floor, "see what happ-"

The broad side of the board hit his forehead with a resounding thwack, and Dodger was finally silent.

The silence in the room was momentarily deafening, until Charlie let out a relieved breath and threw the board back into the nest of shelving rubble. "All those hours of playing whack-a-mole at the arcade just paid off. Gotta say, unconscious Dodger is infinitely more satisfying than prize tickets."

She stepped over the salesman's prone body, offering her arm to help Xander stand. Then, grimacing in distaste, she reached into Dodger's front pocket and pulled out the Hepetalium stone he'd stowed away and stuffed it carefully into her own.

"You alright, luv?" Spike asked, wincing as he moved a little faster than he intended to Charlie's side. He placed a hand under her chin, gently running his thumb over her split lip and examining some of the shallow cuts that were scattered over her face.

"Never better," she answered, frowning at the angry bruising that he was sure had blossomed all over his orbital bones. "But what were you thinking, going after Dodger like that? That horney demon could've ripped your head off while you were getting brain zapped!"

Like she needed to point out his inadequacy. It galled him, not being able fight when he needed to. He felt useless. More than useless. The sodding whelp had been the one stop Dodger, for fuck's sake.

Irritated at her overprotectiveness, Spike narrowed his eyes at her. "Figured if the fyarl didn't turn me into particles, you'd take care of it by launchin' me into a bloody wall."

"Sorry. Didn't really have time to figure out how to work the accelerator." She looked at him so apologetically that he regretted saying anything about it. Wasn't her fault that they'd walked into a minefield before she had time to get a grasp on her enhanced abilities.

He exhaled what was left of his annoyance. "Did fine, luv. He didn't touch base with Bleaks, did he?"

"No," Charlie said, shaking her head, "I thought he'd do something cool, like blow smoke signals or use a magic mirror. But he was just making a phone call. On a wall phone that's now a nicely mixed potpourri of wire and plastic pieces."

"Suppose we won, then."

"Seems like," she agreed, smiling and laying her head against his chest. He threaded his fingers into her battle-disheveled hair, shutting his eyes for a moment as he rested his cheek against the crown of her head. Sod the stone, he felt bloody grateful she hadn't been hurt or… worse.

"I hate to interrupt this tender, Lifetime Movie moment, but what should we do with them?" Xander asked, nudging Dodger with his toe and pointing to the two other unconscious bodies on the floor. "They're gonna go running to tell Bleakgrave what happened the moment they wake up, aren't they?"

"And admit they let a human, a bartender, and muzzled vampire get away their precious merchandise? I highly doubt it," Charlie said.

Spike's eyes drifted to the defenseless, comatose Dodger, still lying faceup on the floor. "Let's not be hasty, luv, Harris has a point."

"I do?" Xander asked, gaping at Spike as though he'd never agreed with him before. Actually, to be fair, it probably was the first time.

"Yeah," Spike continued, "And a good one, at that. Arrogant prat could tell Bleaks who we are, so you should take care of him. Finish him off."

A full fifteen seconds of silence passed before Xander wiped the shock and disgust off his face. "I'm not going to _kill_ Dodger! I meant tie him up, or lock him in one of the factories!" He crinkled his brow in consternation. "And how did my life get to the point where _that_ sentence sounded normal and ethical?"

"No one's killing him," Charlie insisted, "tempting as it might be. Spike's just thinking with his stomach. I say we mosey on out before they wake up and we have to start this fight all over again."

"He'd still be warm… all fresh…" Spike ran his tongue over his teeth as he zeroed in on Dodger's exposed neck. Gallons of blood. If he wasn't even going to be allowed to eat Bleakgrave's human henchmen, he was going to seriously reconsider how much effort he was putting forth in the whole matter. "Not like anybody'd miss him."

"First of all, you don't need anything extra on your conscience, whether you have one or not. Your karma points are probably on par with MC Hammer's overdrawn bank account. Second, you have no idea what Dodger's got flowing through his veins that turned him into a fearless sales-gladiator. Could be steroids and holy water for all you know. And third, we have a soul box to go break."

"Fair enough," Spike relented, realizing that she was probably right about the tainted blood, "But once the mojo's over and done with, we're swingin' past the hospital for some handy, carry out packets of o-neg. Might make you nick a nurse's getup as recompense too."

"We better hurry up then," she said, wincing as Spike pressed her swollen, cut lips to his on the way back out into the night. "Oww."

* * *

When the three counterparts arrived at the Magic Box, they found Giles and the witches gathered around the front of counter, while the slayer sat perched on a stool behind the register with Anya. All them jumped at the sound of the twinkling bell, their tense stances relaxing when they saw who was arriving. It struck Spike as comical, since he sincerely doubted Bleakgrave would be popping in through the store's main entrance as though he were just there to pick up the latest issue of _Wicca Weekly_.

The air in the shop was thick with the scent of sulfur and daisies, barraging Spike's senses, and he noticed that the communal table was already prepared for the spell. Brand new white candles and piles of herbs were carefully strewn about the tabletop, and in the very center, sat the Coffer of Owls, Bleakgrave's most valuable treasure. Either the enchantment had worn off, or Red had already done some work on it, since it was in its original, tattered box state.

"Aaand mission accomplished," Xander proudly announced, as Spike shut the door behind them. The dark haired man paused at the top of the step between the front and back of the store, no doubt waiting for a commendation of some sort. When no one spoke or moved to give him a pat on the back, he continued. "Ran into some trouble, but nothing we couldn't handle. Come on, admit it, you're excited to see us," he coaxed.

"Yeah, we are, because we've been waiting an hour." Buffy hopped off the stool and strode to the table, her tone raising a few eyebrows. "But no big. _It's not like there's going to be an angry magician looking for his stolen property or anything_." Ah, so that's what the dour, pinched expression was about. Slayer wasn't pleased with the delay. When her eyes shifted to Spike and Charlie, taking in the myriad of cuts and bruises that marked their faces, the tight line of her lips softened. But only a little.

"Hey, after the fighting and the kicking, we got out of there as fast as we could and ran here like the wind," Xander insisted.

Spike let out an amused snort. "We didn't run like the wind, you nit. We ran like the _winded_. Charlie's a walkin' bruise, don't think I have any unbroken ribs, and you…" he surveyed Xander, who by all accounts, had avoided most of the visible damage, "...should probably practice a few more times on a treadmill before you try sprintin' on the flat streets of Sunnydale."

"But you do have an awesome tackle," Charlie added diplomatically, stepping aside as Anya abandoned her spot behind the register and came close to embrace her boyfriend.

"He is very good at body to body contact," Anya agreed, running a hand up and down Xander's Hawaiian print shirt. "But where are all your sexy wounds?"

"Ahn, we can have a show and tell of all the bruises on my body later, but now is neither the time nor the place."

Giles was listening the exchange, looking increasingly dismayed. He scrubbed his palms over his cheeks in discomposure. "I do apologize. I had no idea that I'd be sending you all into trouble! He's a degenerate, for sure, but I didn't realize he was capable of such malice."

"It's not your fault, Giles," Charlie said, brushing off the apology. "Dodger and I go way, way back to a few weeks ago at Willy's. Ours is a deep, spiteful grudge. And he's batting for Bleakgrave's team, so it explains the violence level."

Charlie was looking at the watcher uncomfortably as she spoke, Spike noticed, with a mix of curiosity and sadness, no doubt thinking of her aunt. He leaned his head against her temple and rubbed his hand against the back of her neck, also noting with moderate satisfaction the flashes of familial disapproval that Giles was all of a sudden sending his way. If the watcher thought that the discovery of Charlie being his old flame's niece changed absolutely anything, Giles was about to be a sorely disappointed surrogate uncle.

Buffy cleared her throat in an unsubtle way and gave Giles a crisp stare. "Let's get to the part where we take care of this box. I want this over." Tearing his eyes away from Spike, the watcher nodded and meandered behind the counter, digging through a cabinet and procuring a box of matches.

"What's got your knickers all twisted up, Slayer?" Spike grunted as Buffy breezed past everyone as though they were low ranking officers in her own personal army.

"There were a ton of bodies at the palace," Willow informed him quietly, flexing her hands anxiously as she too headed for the table, "And Riley kinda freaked."

Had the slayer been expecting an acappella men's choir and a gaggle of snow geese to meet her at the window? Bleakgrave was a killer, plain and simple, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Spike couldn't for the unlife of him understand why Buffy's heart bled for victims she'd never even met. And who gave two figs about Sargent Vanilla anyway?

Complying with Buffy's desire for haste, Charlie walked over to the table and fished the Hepetallium stone out of her pocket. She placed it on the corner of the tabletop, careful not to disturb any of the ingredients for the spell.

"That's the one!" Willow said brightly, picking it up. "Nice specimen too." The redhead held it up to the light and turned it over in her fingers. Even Spike had to admit, it was a pretty stone. Against the illumination of a lightbulb, it glowed as warmly as the sunshine he missed so much.

Giles finished lighting the candles, and Tara lifted an already opened book off the seat of one of the chairs, helping Willow to balance the tome in the crook of her elbow. "Alright, according to the book, we… we…" Something strange passed over Willow's face as she trailed off, her eyebrows knitting together in wariness. Then her mouth twisted in a grimace of pain, and both the book and the stone hit the floor as she let out a screech.

Glancing down, Spike could see the solid, yellow shape of the rock had turned liquidy and bubbled in a little circle. Some of the residue was still foaming on Willow's hand and she ran to snatch a napkin off the refreshments table, furiously wiping at the remnants while her eyes watered profusely.

And then everyone's attention was fixed on the tiny puddle that was still steaming, leaving a hole the size of a quarter into the linoleum tile.

It was Xander that spoke up first, lifting his head up to stare at the group, reflecting back the look of shock and horror that was on each and every face. "I think I'm speaking for everyone when I say, _what the hellmouth just happened?_ "

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for the favs/follows/and comments over the past two weeks! Leaving_ _you guys with this long chapter since I'm gonna be hanging out in the woods and getting some RL work done for the next week and a half, sans writing time and internet access. But don't worry! I won't leave you hanging too long unless I get eaten by a bear. Your continued encouragement and support will give me the strength to fight off said bear, however, so I can continue this story in a timely fashion._

 _RFK- I'm pretty sure that after watching Charlie operate her magic at Dodger's the way a 95 year old grandmother backs up a Buick, Spike's not going to want her going anywhere near his brain any time soon. And yeah, he's got some other things to worry about at the moment. :)_


	28. Chapter 28- The Best Laid Plans

" _That_ was an anti-particle enchantment," Giles informed them all, after the group had somewhat recovered from the sight of watching their hard-won stone boil itself into nothing but an airborne puff of marigold smoke.

It was gone.

All that fighting, for noth- well, actually, the fight itself had been pretty exhilarating. It just had failed to get them what they needed.

The watcher leaned calmly over the notch in the floor, and Spike could tell that he was trying to conceal his fascination, probably due to everyone else's distress over what had just occurred. There was far too much Oxford scholar left in the watcher, however, not to treat the incident as a research opportunity. "I've read about such spells…" the man continued, running a careful finger along the perimeter of the tile, "but I've never had the opportunity to see one carried out. Dodger must have incorporated it with a timing hex of some sort."

Charlie's voice rumbled dangerously in her throat. "I have an idea. Let's go see if he needs any help with that concussion of his." She turned on her heel and began to stalk towards the door, "You still hungry, Spike?"

Surging after her, Spike grabbed Charlie's arm, stopping her before she'd even made it up the to the front level of the store. Tempting as it was to get involved in another brawl, he was certain that doubling back to Jefferson Road would result in a doomed second match. There was a very good reason why Spike had survived for as long as he had; he knew which fights were worth jumping headlong into and which ones to give a wide berth.

"What are you gonna do, pet? Mock him to death? Fairly certain you're no-jo in the mojo department 'til your next fillup."

"I didn't need magic to lay him out with a two by four," she snapped, trying to pull away. He held on tighter.

"You were bloody lucky. Pulled a fast one on us, he did, and if you think for one bleedin' second that he's not in cahoots with Bleaks, think again. Rotten bastard's prolly there right now, waitin' for us to throw caution to the wind and return to the scene. He'll get what's comin', luv, but not yet."

Her lips contorted into a feral expression, and for a moment Spike thought she was going to wrench her arm out of his grasp and try to leave anyway. And if he had to knock her out, tie her up, and carry her back to the crypt over his shoulder, injuries and all, sod it, he would. But a look of acceptance passed over her face and the inferno in her eyes flickered down to a low burn.

Spike loosened his clasp on her arm, sliding his hand around her hip and slipping his thumb through the belt loop in her jeans. It was an affectionate, intimate gesture, but moreover insurance that he'd feel the second she started moving towards the door if she changed her mind.

"I thought we had this in the bag! We'd practically tied the bag's handle into tiny, impossibly tight knots! I hate it when people mess with us!" Willow fumed indignantly. Tara had returned from the training room with a medical kit, and the redhead held out her hand as her girlfriend liberally spread some clear antibiotic gel across her reddened palm. "What are we gonna do without the stone?"

Buffy took a deep breath, and ran her fingers through her blond hair, looking worn out and discouraged. "We go for plan G, as in Get it Elsewhere." The slayer plopped herself down on the divider step and stretched her legs out in front of her.

"Why didn't you call Manny?" Anya asked, knitting her brows in the direction of the watcher. "His store stocks them and does overnight delivery. Really good prices too… I'm not sure how he does it but I'm thinking we should sit down with him at some point and discuss-"

"Anya?" Giles interrupted, his eyes suddenly snapping up from where they had been transfixed on the hole in the floor. "This information would have been particularly useful earlier. Such as yesterday."

"Well pardon me, but _you_ said you had everything under control. How was I supposed to know that you'd send my boyfriend and the vampires to some crack house for magic supplies? It's not my fault that we're sitting here like… ducks. Ducks that are sitting. Sitting ducks. Why do they call it that? Do ducks get killed alot?"

"Yes, I remember what I said," Giles confessed through gritted teeth, "And I take full responsibility. You said this Manny fellow does overnight delivery?"

Anya glanced down at the store owner's wristwatch. "Well yeah, but it's almost midnight right now. I won't be able to call him until the morning. But we can get it by Friday."

"That's not soon enough," Buffy asserted, shaking her head and staring at the coffer on the table top. "Bleakgrave isn't going to wait around for us to get our act together. I'll go get the stone myself. How far is it to Manny's store?"

"It's in Oakland. I'd imagine that it would take a few days to get there, even for a fit, avid pedestrian like yourself, so shipping really is the much better option. It's very affordable," Anya reiterated. "Oooh, or what if someone drove you there?"

"What an excellent plan," the slayer said dryly.

"Oakland's a five hour ride from here, give or take." Willow frowned in thought as she wound a bandage tightly around her hand. "I'll can go with you and make sure it's the real deal. Maybe Riley could drive us."

"Or I could drive," Giles offered, picking up and dusting off the spellbook that was lying upside down on the floor.

"That tin can's still kickin'?" Spike was sure that he had sufficiently accordioned the watcher's mode of transportation the last time he'd driven it.

"No, I have a new vehicle. Automatic transmission, sporty, it's quite nice."

Spike could hear the pride in the watcher's voice, and couldn't stop himself from tearing the man down a peg or two. "So, what, it's a three-quarter life crisis car?"

Giles turned an unusual shade pink and began to retort, but Buffy interrupted him. "No, it'd be better if you here, Giles. I'm supposed to be watching Dawn after school tomorrow since mom's working late, and I'd feel more comfortable if you were here keeping an eye on her. I'll arrange a ride with Riley."

"Very well," the watcher agreed.

"And what about the box?" Xander asked. "We can't just leave it sitting out on the table, all willy-nilly."

"Yeah, it's not like I can sell it," Anya agreed. Her eyes shifted back to the box, squinting at it as she appraised its value, "I can't, right?"

"We'll have to hide it, under spell and key and maybe in a tower surrounded by an angry dragon and half a dozen ninjas. Somewhere safe." Buffy let out a jaw cracking yawn and rested her head in her hands. "And then I'd like to get a few hours of sleep before we head out."

"Tara and I will do the hidey thing, and I'll meet you at your house before the morning rush hour hits," Willow said, looking pointedly at Buffy, Spike, and Charlie. "You guys go catch some z's. You all look exhausted."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Buffy said, standing up to grab her coat and beelining for the exit, with Charlie hot on her heels. Spike took a moment to pilfer a bottle of aspirin out of the medical kit lying open on one of the chairs before leaving the remaining Scoobies to their work.

"I'm sorry this turned into such a mess," Charlie was apologizing to the slayer when Spike made it into the cool night air outside the shop.

Buffy crossed her arms over her chest and drew in a deep breath, releasing it with a rush. "Yeah, well, it happens. Things that should be easy end up not being easy and then Buffy has to miss Psych class again because she has to go see a guy about a stone."

The complaint seemed to catch Charlie off guard. "I'd go if I could, I mean, if it's not sunny, I can-"

"No, don't listen to me. I'm just grouchy and tired, and things with Riley…" the slayer trailed off as she caught sight of Spike standing nearby. "Anyway, just come by tomorrow night, and we'll start making some plans to go after Bleakgrave as soon as the box is destroyed. For real this time."

"Absolutely, we'll be there," Charlie said, and Spike began to contemplate when it was exactly that he'd lost his bollocks and the ability to make his own plans.

"See you tomorrow." Buffy shoved her hands into her jean jacket pockets and stepped onto the dimly lit street, en route to Rovello Drive.

"Where you goin' pet?" Spike asked distrustfully as Charlie began walking off in a direction that was decidedly not towards the crypt.

She stopped and half turned, her profile crisp and bright against the background of heavy shadows. "I thought we were dropping by the hospital for the American Red Cross Special. O-neg? Handy carry out packets?" She spoke slowly, as if giving him time to jog his memory. "With how we look right now, someone would probably wheel us straight to the morgue if we just take a nap in the hospital entranceway. Same floor as the blood bank right?"

Truthfully, Spike's stomach was growling with anticipation and his ribs were in dire need of sustenance to help knit themselves back together. And if he was alone, he'd already be in the hospital waiting room, flirting with the sign-in nurse or outside, picking the locks to back entrance. But he wasn't alone, and he had no plans put Charlie in any more danger or leave her out of his sight.

He was plagued with a prickle of uneasiness, much like the night in Prague when Dru was almost torn to pieces by an angry mob. While he hadn't listened to his nagging intuition then, he'd be twice damned if he didn't now. The leftover cow's blood in the fridge would be a perfectly sufficient dinner if it meant that they had less of a chance of bumping into the untouchable magician or his unbitable human cronies.

"Think I'd let a spot of peckishness cut into all that time we could be shakin' the sheets?" The wicked undercurrent of his tone was ruined when he lifted an arm to check on the welfare of his cigarettes, barely able to suppress a hiss of discomfort.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly seeing right through his pretense. "You look like you can barely make it into the sheets, much less shake them."

"Care to make that a wager?" Determined to have his way, Spike lowered his lashes and let his vision slither up her legs and curl around her chest before meeting her eyes again.

"Just calling it like I see it," she replied, unconvinced, but let him take her hand and guide her in the direction of home anyway.

"I'm the very picture of health, pet."

It took longer than he would've liked to make it back to the crypt, but between his ribs and the fact that running would draw too much attention, slow was the only possible speed. By the time they arrived, it felt like his lungs were on fire despite the fact that he didn't even use them. The bodily damage and exhaustion of the fight was quickly catching up with him.

By some miracle, he made it down the ladder to the lower level, letting out a quiet grunt as he toed off his boots and slid his duster from his shoulders. He slumped into bed fully clothed, not wanting to go through the unpleasantness that divesting himself of his apparel would cause, both in pain and in commentary from the peanut gallery.

As she stripped off her own blood and grime-covered clothing, Charlie's eyes narrowed suspiciously at his reclining figure. "I thought you were fine."

"Am."

She put her hands on her hips, a display which might have been a tad more imposing had she not been standing in her underwear. "Funny. Those don't look like your usual birthday suit pajamas."

"Not sleepin' yet, am I?"

"Take your shirt off."

He still had enough wherewithal to smirk at the command in her tone. "Is that what we're playin' tonight, pet? Think there's still some chains kickin' around somewhere down here, if you wanna really go for the gusto."

"Shirt. Off."

Sighing, and shooting her a frustrated look, he gingerly lifted the hem of his shirt over his head, glancing down at his torso as he did so. He had to admit, it looked even worse than he thought it would. Deep eggplant marks with tinges of scarlet dappled across his ribs in a starkly contrasting sea of porcelain skin. Charlie went as still as a photograph as she inspected all the trauma he'd exposed.

"Christ, Spike," she finally breathed out, wide-eyed with concern, "You could've said something earlier."

"Sure, I could've. Didn't need to, didn't want to," he retorted. "Don't need to go all Colin Craven every time someone tries to turn me into a vampire puddin'."

"Alright, hearing you loud and clear, Macho Guy. But just so you know, your manliness won't melt off if you inform me that the upper half of your body resembles a doppler radar monitor during hurricane season." Before he had the chance to ask what she was doing, she turned and went scampering up the ladder.

He'd heard the sound of the microwave beeping before she came back down, so he wasn't exactly taken aback when she shoved the mug of warm cow blood into his hands. But he was reluctantly pleased by it. He hated playing the part of the invalid, since he'd spent far too much time in a wheelchair for it to hold any appeal. But where he'd previously been given taunts and insults and emasculating treatment, he was instead bestowed with small gestures of care and tenderness.

His meal was warmed up to a perfect 98.6 degrees, Charlie's fingers were feathering over his aching ribs, her bruised lips occasionally pressing to his shoulder as they sat in bed and he sipped at his liquid dinner and she at hers… it made his injuries almost seem like an advantage.

Almost.

He wouldn't've minded _not_ feeling like someone was playing Jenga with his ribcage every time he shifted his position even a little.

"Did you know Janna?" Charlie asked softly after a while. Spike was surprised it had taken her as long to bring up the subject. Her aunt's name seemed to have been dancing on the tip of her tongue all bloody night.

"Knew of her," he shrugged, instantly regretting the painful movement. He moved the pillow he was leaning against a little higher up behind him. "Heard things from Angelus."

"Yeah, about that… he might be all kindly, undead Dr. Jekyll at the moment, but Mr. Hyde is always going to be lurking inside of him, isn't he? If I ever see Angel again, all I'll be able to think is that his face was the last she ever saw before he killed her." The words hung heavily in the air for a moment, before Charlie added, "It might not be his fault, but I think I hate him."

"Founded that club decades ago, luv," Spike said breezily, but in truth, her declaration skewered him with a pain far worse than his ribs. If she couldn't forgive the puppy-eyed, soulful, toothless sulk for something he had an excuse for, how could Spike even begin to hope that she could forgive him?

"How did he gain and then lose his soul to begin with?"

"Got cursed with it. And apparently the great broodin' lump can't get laid without turnin' back to the dark side." Spike couldn't help the smile that stretched up both sides of his lips.

"Really?" she asked, gaping at him. "God, that'd almost be funny if it hadn't ended with… the way it did. That's the dumbest curse I've ever heard of. What kind of lame-ass moron would curse a vampire with a soul that disappears after he has sex?"

"Right," Spike agreed, wondering if maybe she wouldn't be too upset over the death of her ancestors if she thought they were all imbeciles. "Definitely moronic. Wouldn't be a tragedy if such a berk met an untimely end, now would it? Darwinism and all?"

"Huh?"

"Nothin'," Spike answered, dissembling and tiptoeing away from the cliff of truth he teetered on. He took a long sip of blood, avoiding her confused expression from behind the rim of his mug.

After a few minutes of silence and avoiding her gaze, he realized she had picked his only remaining bottle of nail polish off the floor and was flipping it over in her fingers as she sat with the burgundy sheets twisted around her.

"Paint hearts on anythin' in the crypt and I'll have you doin' penance for a week, pet," he threatened, relieved for the change of subject.

"Don't tempt me," she grinned. "I just wanted to know what it was called."

He'd assumed she'd had an unusual childhood, but he'd also figured nail painting was a right of passage for all pre-pubescent girls. Dawn had a different shade for every day of the month. "Called nail polish. Lacquer, sometimes."

She made no attempt to conceal the exasperated look she gave him. "I meant the name of the color."

"Oh. Black?"

"Nope. It's called Knockout," she said, reading the label on the bottom of the bottle. "That's kinda fitting. You know, I think I'd like to be the person that gets to name all the nail polish colors."

"And will that be before or after you go to cosmetology school? Gonna get a tad problematic explainin' your avoidance of mirrors."

"No, no. I've been thinking about this for a few minutes… there could be a whole nail polish line for vampires."

"And what would that look like?" he snorted, picturing a row of polishes shaped like coffins, sold crypt to crypt by overdressed, undead housewives.

She tapped a finger against her knee, and looked up at the ceiling in consideration. "It would feature dark reds… with names like... Bottom's Up, Breakfast in Red…. Al-red-y Departed."

The whole concept was ridiculous, and though Spike was fairly certain that she wasn't serious about starting up a cosmetics business, he wanted to humor her. "Ashes to Ashes," he suggested thoughtfully.

"A muted, creamy grey," Charlie agreed.

"Just variations on blacks and reds, then? Could call it Vamp Varnish."

"Ooooh, an excellent contribution to this little goldmine I'm sitting on. If you're nice to me, I might be willing to name one after you," she teased.

"I'll always be nice to you, luv." He reached under the sheets to run a finger along her bare thigh, about all the sexual activity he had the energy for, given the state of the rest of him. Even though his touch was light and fleeting, it still drew a shiver and a little smile from her. "And what hue would you give me? A nice, patent leather black? Platinum white?"

"Mmmm," she mused, "No. It'd need to be a color that was always you, not your bleached hair or clothing color palette. Those things can change"

"What then?" He was truly curious what her answer would be.

"Blue would be your color," she said without missing a beat, looking into his eyes, "Gas flame blue, with hints of gold to represent your vampire self. You'd be the only riot of color in an otherwise red and black world."

Something in her expression softened as she looked at him, and Spike wondered what she was thinking. Almost flat-out asked her. But then she looked away, clearing her throat self consciously, and the chance was gone. "We should probably name one for Dracula, too. What do you think? Black with a purple sheen?"

"Color doesn't matter so long as you only fill the bottle half full. Dracs is a bloody welsher. Owes me eleven pounds, he does," was Spike's petulant reply.

At some point before daybreak, feeling more relaxed and revived after the nourishment and smalltalk, his head ended up in her lap as she stroked a hand against his hair and hummed some age-old tune that quivered on the edge of his memory. He was sure the sound was meant to be calming, but the ancestral gypsy lullaby distressed him, as though it was a game of musical chairs and when the humming stopped, he'd find himself without a seat, without the girl.

And eventually her humming did stop, but the only thing Spike lost were his worried thoughts, as he was lulled to sleep by her fingers rhythmically threading against his scalp.

* * *

 _A/N: I haven't been eaten by a bear! Just buried under deadlines at the moment, which is great for my bank account and awful for my free time. But the good news is I know exactly where this story's going, so it's just a matter of getting the time to finish chapters and edit. Thanks for the all faves and follows! Do you guys think that Spike's going to break down and tell Charlie what he did to her family, or will someone else spill the beans? Leave me your theories and burning questions!_


	29. Chapter 29- Ad Infinitum

_Clank._

 _Clank._

 _Clank clank clank clank._

The jarring sound of metal hitting metal tore Spike out of the most soothing, blood-filled slumber he'd had in weeks.

The first thought that crashed through his head was that Dodger had found the crypt, and forgetting about all of his injuries from the previous night, Spike shot into a sitting position while simultaneously reaching out for Charlie. But his hand only met with cold, wrinkled sheets and the open pages of a hardcover book, and sure enough, when he turned his head to check, she wasn't there.

Swearing, he squinted up at the ceiling in time to watch the tail end of a length of hefty chain clatter over the ladder and vanish through the hole to the upper level. Both disoriented and panicked, he was about fling off the sheets and go racing up to the ground floor when he heard more rattling, followed by a loudly uttered "Jesus H. Christ," in what was definitely Charlie's frustrated but lively voice.

His eyes then slid down the span of the ladder, focusing in on an assortment of his tools at the bottom, dispersed haphazardly all over the floor. The lemony-fresh scent of cleaning products drifted downwards from the upper level, assaulting his nose and revealing what Charlie was more or less up to. The girl was playing homemaker.

Spike checked the clock, groaning at the hour hand that was mockingly pointing to the number four, and he stifled the urge to chuck the gleaming timepiece at the wall. While it wasn't exactly early, it wasn't exactly late either, and after the night they'd had, a few extra hours of sleep would have been beneficial. And a wakeup shag would have been glorious.

He vaguely remembered his sleep patterns during the first year of his unlife, however, and knew that it could take several months for Charlie's nocturnal clock to fully kick in. She'd probably been up for hours already.

Cramped and stiff in more ways than one, he stretched his arms behind his head before placing his bare feet onto the woolen carpet. Though his ribs were feeling less achy, there was something about sleeping in jeans and a belt that just didn't sit right with him. Made him itch for a shower and a change of clothes. But hearing more noises coming from above, he put thoughts of hygiene aside and trudged over to the ladder, ascending slowly to catch an uninterrupted glimpse of what his progeny was up to.

Stopping at the third to last cold metal rung, he rested his elbows on the lip of the opening, raising his eyebrows at the spectacle in front of him. The crypt was spotless, not a cobweb or pile of dirt to be seen. He had never been one of those purist vamps that believed dust and spiderwebs were necessary to the ambiance of a vampire's habitat, but the extreme cleanliness seemed a bit out of place for a building traditionally used to store rotting corpses.

Charlie was fully dressed and kneeling down in front of the outer crypt door, trying to cut off the extra length of chain she'd wrapped around the iron bars. Dark strands of hair drifted across her cheeks as she grunted and pushed the handles of his bolt cutter together. The shafts she gripped were bowing and groaning in protest, but the blades barely dented the chain links.

"What is this cutter made out of? Spoons?" she muttered to herself, roughly shoving her hair back out of her face.

"Might as well be." Spike stepped the rest of the way up the ladder, "Bit dulled down from abundance of use."

"Oh, hey, you're awake," she said, her face lighting up at the sound of his voice. She set down the cutters and stood to wipe the dust off the knees of her jeans.

Spike crossed the floor and grumpily rattled the end of the chain with his bare toe. "Hellen Keller couldn't've slept through the bloody racket you just made."

"So it was the chains that finally did it, huh? I've been loud all afternoon..." she said, sliding her hands up and around his shoulders and kissing the underside of his chin. All it took was that little gesture, and Spike's irritation evaporated completely. "I was beginning to think I could set off a bomb and you wouldn't hear it."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him. "Was savin' those chains for a special occasion, darlin'," he whispered in her ear.

She blatantly ignored his innuendo and glanced up at him with a grin. "Chains for a special occasion… did someone invite you to prom? I hate to say it, but not even _you_ could pull off the Mr. T look on top of a tux with any amount of dignity."

"Wasn't planin' on goin' to prom. 'Less you felt like crashin' one and asked me nicely, pet."

"My dance skills have been referred to as one-of-a-kind, though I don't think I want to relive the horror show that was my high school years. But in all seriousness, what do you think?" she asked, indicating towards her handiwork.

"Will be very useful for keepin' out Harris and Watcher when we don't want company," Spike conceded, observing the heavy padlock that fastened the chains together. He gave her a playful smirk and attempted to amend the lackluster start to his day, "Should go downstairs and see if it works."

"I was thinking more along the lines of keeping out the Bleakgrave cronies." Ah, so it was Bleakgrave and Dodger that Spike could thank for the Fort-Knox treatment and the early wakeup call.

"All it takes is a meltin' spell or a jagged scrap of hardware, luv, and we'll have unwelcome houseguests all the same," he pointed out.

"Maybe Willow can do a protection spell on the padlock? But even if she can't, cutting it off will make some noise and might buy us a couple of minutes. And apparently I'm gonna need all the time I can get to wake you up."

Spike highly doubted that the padlock would do much, aside from keeping out the local drunks and the homeless. To him, and ergo anyone with nefarious intentions, a padlocked door was like a beacon in the night, advertising the location of something worth stealing or at least snooping through. Still, he doubted that most people would notice an old padlock and a rusty set of chains wrapped around a crypt door, and if it eased her mind to know it was there, it was worth the risk.

"Oh, before I forget, I found two copies," she said, handing him a key.

"Ta, pet." He stuffed the thin piece of brass into his pants pocket. "Gonna be puttin' up a white picket fence next?"

"I think we have enough danger in our lives without worrying about dusting if we accidentally trip over the shrubs on the way in. And speaking of danger, you look better," she said, eyeing his chest. "Less… purple."

"Wasn't really my color."

"Gonna have to agree with you." Seeing his bruises seemed to remind her of the gravity of their situation, and the humor that she was using as a cover slipped from her face. She looked up at him, worriedly biting at her lip. "Do you think Buffy's back yet?"

"Not unless she traded in Soldier Boy's tank for a portal."

"So that's a no, then." Sighing, she looked around the room, her eyes halting at the refrigerator. "Well, I guess I could clean out the fridge next… Hey, how do we do laundry?"

Spike could tell that incident with the Hepetalium stone was playing over and over in her mind, and she wasn't going to feel relaxed until the box was destroyed. And perhaps not even then. He couldn't blame her, but thirty more minutes of being cooped up in the crypt, and she'd probably be storing cleaning products inside his sarcophagus and chronologically ordering his journals or… shit. Time to pack _those_ away from prying eyes.

Brushing the line of her jaw with his forefinger, he drew her attention away from the appliances. "Luv?"

"Yeah?"

"You wanna sally forth to the shop, I've no mind to argue," he said, thumb tracing her slightly swollen lower lip. Her cuts, at least, were fading quickly. "You'll just have to get over whatever hang-up you have 'bout taken' the sewers."

"I don't have a hang-up! I just…" she paused, sulking at the knowing look Spike shot in her direction, "okay, I do have a little bit of a hang-up. It's more of a fang-up, really, since I just hate the idea of having to creep around in the dark, but we can take the sewers. I'll deal."

She then wrinkled her nose in such an adorable way that Spike couldn't help but smile. "But..." she added, "on a scale of one to _Mimic_ , how creepy are they?"

"S'just like takin' a stroll down Rodeo, so long as we bypass the tunnel that the giant snake demon lived in. Left his digested infant bones all over, the slob."

"Liar," Charlie said, cracking a grin. It faded a little when Spike didn't confirm or deny his statement. "You _are_ lying right?"

"Probably," Spike replied, making a mental note to keep well away from the passages near the factories.

* * *

At 4:30 on a weekday, the Magic Box should have been bustling with customers, stopping on their way home from work to pick up ingredients for spells that would no doubt improve their bank accounts or their boring, meaningless lives. Instead, it was eerily quiet as Spike and Charlie made their way up the creaky stairs from the basement.

Tiny rays of fading sunlight poked their fingers through the window blinds next to the bolted up door, while Anya was busily counting the money behind the register. The heavy sighs and sullen look on the ex vengeance demon's face as she stacked the bills left no doubt that she was annoyed at the early close.

By contrast, Dawn and Xander were sitting comfortably at the table, both doing their level best to be in better spirits than Demon Girl. Dawn had a notebook and a stack of books piled in front of her, though she seemed far more interested in whatever the whelp was saying, as he stuffed his face with a glazed confection. Spike could hear someone, presumably Rupert, putzing around in the back room.

"I thought we'd be the first ones here, but you guys have done some major settling in already," Charlie said as she sank down into the chair next to the slayer's little sister, glancing amusedly in the direction of an enormous box of donuts in the middle of the table. Never one to miss the opportunity for free human food, Spike reached forward to push open the cover, plucking out his favorite; the powdered kind, with the deliciously sweet, strawberry filling. He pulled a chair out from under the table and threw himself into it.

"Not only are we early," Xander said, eyeing Spike with a look of distaste as the vampire bit into it, a smidge of blood red jam dripping from the corner of his mouth, "but I've already set up the supplies for our re-try of the spell and I put back the ginormous stack of books we used last night."

Spike snorted with doubtfulness, but Charlie seemed to buy it. "Really?" she remarked, "That's very ambitious of you."

"No. Not really," the Scooby admitted, taking another bite of pastry. "It was all Anya. But I _am_ on my third donut."

"Oh. Those are called donuts?" Anya finally looked up from the counter and frowned at the open box of treats.

Xander stopped chewing, and Spike could see the mishmash of pink icing and sprinkles in his mouth as he talked. "Ah, Anya? You were the one that bought them. What have you been calling them when you order?"

"Candied bagels. The employees always seemed to know what I mean, but maybe that's why they laugh so much. I thought they were just on sugar highs all the time. Oh, and I got a juice box for the little girl."

Dawn began to protest either the "little girl" description or the drink itself, but Charlie nudged her before she could start a pointless argument with the ex vengeance demon. "If it's fruit punch I'll Rock Paper Scissors you for it," Charlie offered. The proposal seemed to appease the teenager, and she shrugged in aloof agreement.

"What happened to you anyway?" Dawn asked, her eyes focusing on the faded cuts on Charlie's face. Spike was glad his worst injuries were concealed under his shirt. "Buffy comes home all hurt sometimes but she's the slayer. I didn't think you were the fighting type."

"Generally, no, not the fighting type. But this is a tough situation everyone's dealing with, and the more of us that combat Bleakgrave and his friends, the better."

"Is he that tough?" Dawn's voice was timid.

Spike chuckled bitterly. "Tough? Bleaks would suck the soul right out of your chest, Niblet, and use your- oww!" Charlie's foot ricocheted off his shin, and he glared at her as he reconsidered his answer.

"He's no marshmallow, Bit, but you've got nothin' to fret about. His overstuffed head's already on the chopin' block, plus you've got Big Bad lookin' out for you," Spike said, adding a wink at the nervous girl. Dawn gave him a childish grin that gave him feel all sorts of uncomfortably protective feelings. Though he tried resent the girl's reaction and dislodge the heavy feeling of fondness that had burrowed into his heart, he found it wouldn't budge.

Five o'clock came and went, and eventually Giles wandered into the main room, instructing Anya to head to the basement for some kind of artifact sorting. Seeing Charlie, the man finally gathered all of his courage and invited her into the training room to talk. It put Spike on edge, but Charlie seemed relieved to finally be getting the conversation about her aunt over with.

"Sure this is a good time, Watcher?" Spike asked, standing and heading away from the table to pin a very direct, meaningful glare on the man.

"I know what the deal is, Spike, I spoke with Buffy," Giles replied quietly once Charlie had left the room. "However, I do think you'd be far better off discussing certain matters now and not later."

"If I want some advice, Rupes, I'll have myself some Chinese takeout and order a fortune cookie, not beseech your counsel-fulness."

"A wise method, I'm sure," Giles said disparagingly, "with the added bonus that you'll have the weeks winning lotto numbers and learn how to write _dry cleaning_ and _dumpling_ in Chinese." With that, the watcher followed Charlie out of the store front, shutting the door behind him.

"Already know Chinese, you git," Spike muttered at the door, ignoring the curious expressions of the two humans that were sitting nearby. Sighing, Spike plopped himself back into his hard wooden chair.

Dawn brightened suddenly. "Can we get General Tso's?"

Despite Rupert's assurances that he wouldn't divulge more information than necessary, Spike tried to focus his hearing on the discussion in the training room for the next hour, tuning out the Niblet's chatter about the unbeatable high school football team and every word that came out of Harris's mouth. His dead heart lurched in his chest every time anything that sounded like a small laugh or sob came from the back of the store, but there was no yelling or cursing, and no Charlie crashing out the door to point an accusing finger at him.

After a while, out of the sheer madness of not being able to hear the the conversation, Spike thought up an ad for Giles to put in the personals once he'd gotten himself over the demise of Charlie's aunt.

 _Former Wanker's Councilman with untuned guitar and fetish for moldy books seeks open-minded lady who won't judge him for failure to hold long-term employment. Messy death inevitable but can do excellent impression of a dry tea crumpet. Inquiries to the Magic Box._

Should write that one down. Spike wondered which papers would serve as the most humiliating for good ol' Rupes.

Another hour passed without any outbursts, and Spike relaxed enough to borrow Dawn's history book. He halfheartedly flipped through the worn out pages, growing annoyed at the serious lack research that had gone into the writing of it. " _Henry Ford invented the car_?" he burst out. "More like invented a way to take over the bloody industry. Invented new ways to be a massive pillock. No wonder you kids have your heads so full of rot!"

Both Xander and Dawn shot him a dirty look, and he shuffled the pages to the section on Thomas Jefferson. "Oh, who the bloody hell wrote this? Tolkien?"

By seven o'clock, the training room door was still shut and there was still no slayer, no witch, and no soldier, just one recently arrived slayer's mother to pick up the Bit.

"Thank you, Xander," Joyce said, stepping inside as soon as Harris unbolted the door for her. The woman surveyed the quiet store, smiling fondly at her youngest daughter who was intently scribbling into her composition notebook. Untying the scarf around her neck, Joyce caught sight of Spike, busy folding Dawn's notecards into origami coffins. "Oh, hello, Spike! Didn't expect to see you here!"

"Wasn't expectin' to be here, but seein' as we have a common goal, suppose we're all birds of a feather for the mo'," he admitted, adding a fourth casket to a growing pile and leaning back in his chair.

Radiating scorn, Xander went to stand behind the counter with Anya, who was sorting yet another box of artifacts. "You're like a greasy, flesh-eating crow, Spike. In a nest of cool, helpful sparrows."

"Crows are a fair lot more 'telligent than the rest of its species, mate. 'Suppose you didn't know that, though, bein' a dumb little passerine and all."

Joyce blinked at the bickering twosome, then turned her attention back to Dawn, "… honey, are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, just gotta pack my stuff up."

At the sound of voices, Giles and Charlie emerged from the back room, and Spike was glad to see that despite the glistening on her cheeks, Charlie was smiling at something the watcher had said. Her eyes briefly met with with Spike's, and he was relieved to see no anger in them.

"Joyce, you're here! Is it seven already?" the watcher asked.

"Hi Rupert, Charlie. Yes, it's almost quarter after. Thanks for keeping an eye on Dawn. We had a last minute shipment of paintings for the gallery and everything needs to be hung before tomorrow night. I'm about ready to tear my hair out, and with Buffy on the road all day, and everything that's been going on with that awful magician…"

The watcher dismissed her gratitude with a wave of his hand. "It's not at all a problem, really. No trouble."

"Buffy isn't back?" Joyce asked, looking around the store.

"Not yet, but I'm sure the Buffster and crew will come rolling by in Riley's pickup any minute now," Xander reassured her.

"She did say dinnertime-ish. It's lasagna and crescent rolls tonight, she wouldn't want to miss the leftovers. I swear sometimes all I have to do is say _lasagna_ and she appears out of nowhere like she has sonic hearing for all words involving pasta."

The bell on the door jingled and Joyce's I-told-you-so face lit up as she turned to greet her daughter.

Except that it wasn't Buffy.

All of the air seemed to get sucked out of the small shop, replaced by the overpowering scent of ashes and… oddly enough, mango... as a lone figure dressed in damasked velvet strolled in.

Bleakgrave.

The magician stood by the doorway, looking very, very smug. He met the eyes of each person in the room as though daring anyone to to make a move against him.

Anya was the first to speak. "We're closed. But please bring your money back tomorrow!" she said in a forced, cheerful voice. It sounded as though she didn't know who he was, but with Anya one could never be sure.

When Bleakgrave didn't respond and no one else spoke up, Joyce took it upon herself to address the man. "Sorry sir, I think what she means is that though the store is closed at the moment, but they'd be happy to-," the words died in Joyce's throat as Charlie caught her eyes and gave rapid, terrified shake of her head.

"Is that him? The Bewildering Bleakgrave?" Spike heard Xander asking under his breath, as Bleakgrave took a few steps inside, unhurriedly edging into the store like a snake perusing a henhouse.

"I guess it is," Anya whispered back, not taking her eyes off the magician.

"You know, his name says kiddie birthday party, but his face says cell block seven…"

Spike's mind was racing. It was the worst possible combination of people to be up against the magician. The watcher, an ex demon, two vampires that could do little to nothing against him, and three very ordinary humans.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Charlotte. This is unexpected," Bleakgrave said in his cold baritone, taking a slow promenade around Charlie. She seemed frozen in place, and he could see the slightest tremble vibrate through her fingers. With her magic sucked dry, the vampire's green eyes filled with trepidation and darted to Spike's, and he hoped that the look he was sending back was telling her to stay calm.

Of course, Spike was far from calm. He wanted to rip the mousy-brown hair out of the magician's scalp, stuff it down the man's throat to choke on while he slowly bled out from multiple fang-inflicted puncture wounds.

"I was certain I'd left you for dead. In fact, I don't see how it's possible that you aren't dead. Unless…" Bleakgrave's eyes shifted towards Charlie's neck, and he reached out to brush her hair out of the way, pressing a forefinger to the pale white scar that marked her skin. Bleakgrave chuckled when she flinched and took a step backwards, and the magician turned his head to seek out Spike, the answer to the puzzle.

"Ah. I left the dying girl with the noble vampire, and he couldn't let her go. Not my most well thought out moment, but these things do happen. Oh well. Still dead. And now I know who was skulking around my dressing room in Los Angeles. Hodges told me all about you two. He was quite disgusted with your publicly wanton behavior, you know, and I can't blame him."

"Times have changed since the likes of you and I were born. You don't like it, might I offer the helpful suggestion of stickin' yourself back in the clink for a while longer. See if it's any better next millennium."

Bleakgrave circled around to stop in front of Spike, aggressively leaning in to his personal space, and Spike realized that the scent of ashes was coming from the magician's mouth. "Things are starting to make sense now. I've heard of you, you know," he said, shoving a finger into Spike's chest. "All the whispers on the street of the old vampire living in Los Angeles with a soul, solving crimes, always trying to rescue the innocents?"

Spike's first instinct was to adamantly deny the ridiculous accusation. He even had the sneer on his face, the witty retort on his lips, _do I look like a brooding, whiney humanitarian with permanent stick-up hair and a caveman brow_? But running the thought over in his mind, it was much better to have the magician barking up the wrong trail, particularly if it led straight to Angel's doorstep instead of his own.

"I'll... save the day. Good will always triumph over evil," Spike said, not daring to meet the incredulous stares of anyone in the room. "You wanker," he threw in for good measure.

"This isn't about good and evil. This is about getting back what was taken from me. Again. And though I didn't watch _you_ run off with anything of mine, I do suspect you had your claws in it. I'm here for the slayer. You know, the spry, blonde beauty that came through my window last night?"

Xander's hands gripped the edge of the counter, his jaw set firmly. "She's not here. But if you want to leave your card, I'll make sure she gets it."

"This isn't a social call, boy. I'm here to deal with her."

"You'll never touch my sister! Buffy'll kick your butt right back to wherever you came from!" Dawn cried out. Joyce shushed her daughter and stepped forward a little, blocking most of Dawn from Bleakgrave's sight.

"Joyce, why dontcha take the Bit into the training room?" Spike growled quietly.

"No, no, stay right where you are. I like this one. She's sassy," Bleakgrave said, taking a few steps towards the Summers women. Joyce glowered at the magician and pushed her youngest daughter completely behind her.

"Sister, huh?" Bleakgrave grinned at Joyce. "That must make _you_ the slayer's mommy dearest."

"You aren't going to touch my daughters," Joyce bit out coldly.

"Look, Blistering Brainwave," Spike said quickly, successfully turning the magician's attention away from his current targets, "you want your puny spirit receptacle, we'll tell you where it is, and then you can be on your merry way, no harm, no foul."

"It's Bewildering Bleakgrave, vampire, and it's not that simple. Do you have any idea of the problems I'm dealing with at the moment?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Spike could see the watcher pick the stone gargoyle statue off the display in front and begin creeping behind Bleakgrave, leaving Spike to inherit the role of the distraction. Easy enough.

"Wager your problems are difficult to pronounce, Batcave," Spike jeered, forcing himself to focus solely on Bleakgrave's eerily dead eyes.

"Bleakgrave. Don't make me say it again, vamp."

Spike gave the magician a look of pure bewilderment, "Say what again?" Giles was within striking distance, and slowly lifted the statue above Bleakgrave's head.

"Bleak-" the magician began, stopping himself and sniffing irritatedly. "You are an incredibly frust-"

Giles slammed the statue against Bleakgrave's head. Or at least Giles would have if he hadn't suddenly frozen in place, gargoyle still clutched tightly in his hands. Bleakgrave spun around to face the watcher, and began chanting in something that sounded vaguely like Sumerian.

Everything seemed to spin into chaos after that. Joyce began running for the training room with Dawn in tow, Xander had grabbed a dagger out of the counter display and was vaulting towards the magician, Charlie was frantically shoving chairs out of the way to get to Giles, and Spike was racing towards Charlie, about to pull her away and back down the steps to the basement… and then everything went still.

For fuck's sake. Immobilized again. Spike found he could still move his head, growling upon the discovery that everyone else was in the same boat. It looked like a bleeding Madame Tussaud's exhibit in the Magic Box.

"Well, everyone, this has been most entertaining," Bleakgrave said, a smile pulling on his lips as he shoved Xander, who fell stiffly to the floor like a mannequin. "Much as I'd love to stay and chat, I'm not feeling terribly welcome in your establishment. So. First, tell Buffy that I'm taking back what's mine."

Horrified, Spike watched as a drawer behind the register opened and Coffer of Owls flew right out, landing in Bleakgrave's outstretched hands. _That_ was the safe fucking place the witches decided to hide it?

"And second, I'm charging interest for this... inconvenience. Mess with me again, and I'll put an end to you all." Bleakgrave narrowed his eyes at Charlie, "Permanently."

The rest happened so fast that Spike didn't have time to process it. One minute, Bleakgrave was standing in the magic shop and the next… he wasn't.

And neither were Joyce and Dawn.


	30. Chapter 30- Grave Season

Once upon a time, a foolish, romantic young man let himself become a monster, and the rules of his world suddenly became very simple. Humans hated vampires, vampires hated the slayer, vampires ate humans, and the slayer killed every soulless, blood-addicted demon she came across. With this in mind, Spike gleefully wreaked havoc all over the globe with his dark princess at his side. He followed the steps of the vampire creed, as consistent and unfaltering as the dancing figurines in a cuckoo clock, and he rarely questioned anything more than why the Poof was such a wanker or why Americans had such a sweet, tangy aftertaste. But somewhere along the way, he'd detoured right off the spinning clock track, and nothing was simple anymore.

The reason why was difficult to ascertain.

It was quite possibly Dru's fault. If the harpy hadn't decided to unceremoniously dump him and spend the evening snogging the slime out of a chaos demon, they'd probably still be draining every fanny-pack toting tourist that got lost in the backstreets of Brazil. Spike never would've come crawling back to Sunnyhell to lick his wounds, never would've been bagged and tagged by the Initiative, never would've spent so much time reluctantly hanging around the slayer and her pals. Never would've met Charlie either.

Or, door number two, he could blame all of his unlife complications on the chip. Certainly shot his food pyramid straight to hell. _But that's not it_ , the little taunting voice in the back of his head told him. A respectable vampire would have found ways to to kill a human anyway, feed off of their dead bodies, and get as far away from the slayer and Sunnydale as inhumanly possible if he couldn't get the chip dislodged from his brainmatter.

The truth was that Spike _let_ the chip incapacitate him, let it become his excuse for becoming domesticated, like a dog that would rather be in the family house with a muzzle on than be outside and free to chase the chickens.

The ridiculous group of white hats had something that Spike secretly yearned for, perhaps more than blood itself; a closeness with each other that even he couldn't break with his deceit and manipulation. He almost had the same bond with Darla, Angelus, and Dru, but _that_ turned out to be a kick in the face. And obviously Dru as a solo companion ended in spectacular failure. It was painful to admit, all buried in the deepest depths of his heart, but he needed that attatchment, needed to feel relied upon, needed to be a part of something bigger, even if that _something_ was the slayer's group of misfits. And Charlie… well, Charlie was everything he didn't even know he needed until she just… _was_ everything.

No, Spike didn't want his uncomplicated, pre-chip life back, not even for the simplicity of it.

But whatever the culprit for Gordian knot that was currently his unlife, it didn't change the fact that he was now staring at the space that Joyce and the Niblet had been standing in not thirty bloody seconds ago, feeling something strangely like bile rising in his throat. They were gone. The mother, so like his own, that kept her cupboards stocked with cocoa just for him, and the little girl he'd promised to protect, now both in Bleakgrave's vice-like clutches. There was only one thing that Bleakgrave would want them for, and it wasn't a mother-daughter tea party.

The immobilization spell had worn off, but Spike didn't notice until his nails began gouging crescent shaped cuts into the palms of his hands. He dimly noted that Xander was still lying with his face smushed against the linoleum, which would have been funny had it been any other situation. Realizing he was finally able to move his arms, Harris rolled onto his back with a groan and sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead.

Nearby, the watcher had also regained control of his limbs, but instead of moving, the man was fixated on the spot where Joyce and Dawn had just stood, still gripping the stone gargoyle and so bloodlessly pale he'd fit in with a vampire colony. Demon Girl seemed to be in a similar state of horrified disbelief, but at least she had enough gumption to shake off her distress and see to Xander's injuries.

Spike felt Charlie's body shudder next to him as the spell ended, and she began sucking in lungfuls of air out of ingrained, human habit. Wordlessly, he righted one of the upturned chairs and guided her backwards into it, sitting on his haunches so his face was level with hers. Clutching the sleeve of his duster, she looked at him with teary and unfocused eyes, and he saw his own fears reflected back in them.

"What do we do?" she whispered, her breathing easing off as she gained control over her panic.

What _should_ they do? They ought to run. They ought to get the fuck out of Sunnydale and find a nice little crypt across the pond where the eating was good and they wouldn't be bothered, enjoy each other for the rest of eternity. But Spike already knew that Charlie would dig her heels in, refuse to leave until the Bleakgrave situation was over, one way or another.

And Spike didn't want to run either.

Why? Because he'd gone bloody soft, that's why. Couldn't leave Joyce and Dawn in danger. He could see his own stupid future playing out before him; once he was done playing the big hero, he could go join up with Angel's team, helping the hapless or the soapless or whatever they did. He could fetch Forehead's blood in the mornings, save puppies from burning buildings, and make sure that all the neighborhood children got enough presents for Christmas. God, when had he become such a ponce?

"We get them back, luv," he promised Charlie, with acres more confidence than he felt. Then, feeling the need to lash out at something, Spike sneered at the three remaining store occupants. "So which one of you morons hid the box in a bloody _stock_ _bin_? In the middle of a _retail shop_?"

There was a long stretch of silence before anyone volunteered a reply. "We all thought it was the best place at the time, so Willow and Tara enchanted the drawer before we left last night. It was a joint decision, Spike," Xander finally admitted.

"Meaning you all smoked one before you made it, right? You let the Bit and her mum into the place you were hidin' that bastard's stockpile?"

"And what would you have suggested, Spike?" Watcher's voice was strained, but there was no fire in his challenge. "Should we have buried it thirty paces from a sycamore tree and carried it out in the open, back to the shop, only when we were ready to perform the spell?"

Spike blinked. "Given the outcome? Yeah."

"They're pretty much goners, right?" Anya inquired, looking to Giles as she gingerly applied an ice pack to a welt on Xander's forehead. "Bleakgrave's going to do that soul-sucking thing to get back at Buffy and-"

Xander cut her off. "Ahn- can we please be optimistic? I don't think that-"

"-I'm being realistic! How come every time I-"

"-Oh, for god's sake," the watcher interrupted, "can we just agree that we have no-"

"Will just you stop it?!" Charlie yelled, "All of you!" She had sprung from her seat and was glaring at all of them. Better than listless, but the turbulent look on her face was intense, bordering on scary. "Arguing isn't going to fix what just happened. We need to figure out how to get them ba-" The front door opened and Charlie shut her mouth with an audible click, turning a shade paler, if that was even possible, at the sight of Red and the slayer walking into the store.

"I know his truck's old," Willow was saying, holding the door open so the petite blonde could pass through, "but it's the kind that you keep for a long time. Get your money's worth, run it into the ground."

"I think it almost _did_ run us into the ground a few times. He really needs to do that thing where they stick the tires back on straight." Buffy abruptly stopped walking when she realized everyone was idly standing around and staring at them.

"Hey, look, it's a party! And look at us, all stone-having!" The slayer fished a brand new Hepetallium stone out of a small brown paper bag and held it up for everyone to see. Her smile faltered when no one returned her enthusiasm. "And hey, with the long faces. What's wrong? Oh god, was I supposed to get a receipt? Because Manny's return policy was pretty clear about used merchandise…"

Giles removed his glasses and began polishing them so forcefully that Spike was fairly certain he heard the glass cracking. "Buffy… we've, um, had an incident… and um, Dawn…" the watcher paused, seemingly at a loss for words.

Buffy groaned. "This just in, Dawn's in trouble. In other news, water is wet, fire is hot, and my stakes are really pointy. More at 11," she said dryly. "What'd she do now? "

Taking a small step forward, Charlie shook her head, and Spike noticed that his progeny was absently rubbing the scar from his bite on her neck as she spoke. "Dawn didn't do anything, and Buffy, it's not just her… it's your mom too..."

"What do you mean, my mom too? What happened?"

"Bleakgrave… found us," Charlie said, looking more and more uncomfortable. "He showed up just after your mom arrived to pick Dawn up. He took the Coffer back."

"It was _here_?" Buffy whipped her head towards Willow. "You hid it _here_?"

"There's no way he could have felt it!" Willow protested. "We used a Burnett hex! And… and where else were we supposed to hide it?"

"I don't know, somewhere that's _NOT here_?"

Taking a sudden interest in the floor tile, Willow fell silent, and Buffy turned her attention back to the female vampire. "What else?"

"He said he was taking back what was his with a… a penalty... for the, um, in- inconvenience."

"And what was the penalty?" Buffy asked, fear edging into her voice. She blinked a few times as though she was preparing herself for the a physical blow of a demon she was fighting.

Charlie looked pleadingly at Spike, and he could see how much she didn't want to say the rest. "Bleaks took Joyce and Niblet," Spike finished for her, stifling the worried tone in his voice before anyone took notice.

It was clear that the slayer had already assumed as much, but as Spike well knew, thinking it and hearing it out loud were two very different things.

"No. No, he can't. Giles?"

The watcher nodded a pained affirmative, and Buffy went from scared college girl to steely, angry slayer in a microsecond. "Did anyone even _try_ to stop him?!"

Looking at their surroundings, Spike could see why the slayer would have her doubts. Besides a busted open drawer behind the register and a few jostled chairs, nothing in the store seemed out of place.

"Buff, of course we tried…" Xander said, helplessly holding out his arms, "it's just… he was so strong, there was nothing we could have done…"

Without another word, Buffy strode right past the rest of the group and into the training room. The scraping sound of metal on metal and a few loud crashes were heard as the rest of the group stood by, unsure of what to do. A minute or so passed, and when she emerged again, the slayer was loaded to the brim with weapons. A duffle bag full of god-knows-what was slung over one shoulder, a sword and scabbard strapped to the other, a cross bow was perched in one of her hands, while an assortment of knife tips stuck out from underneath her suede jacket. It was overkill and probably useless, and Spike was sure she'd sink like a paperweight if she had to swim anywhere.

"Suit up," Buffy said to no one in particular, which Spike assumed meant everyone.

"Whoooa, hold up a minute! Can we talk about this? Can we have a… a plan… a vague, blurry outline of what we're gonna do?" Willow blurted out.

"We don't have time. Will, we're talking about my mom! And Dawnie... We need to stop him now."

"We _do_ have time. Not a lot of time, but Bleakgrave's rituals can't actually start for another day and a..." Charlie trailed off as the slayer gave her a stare that would have melted the rust off of a fifty year old swing set.

Giles stepped forward, looking like he might put a comforting hand on her shoulder if not for the fact that the slayer was dressed like a porcupine. "Buffy, I know this is most distressing, but-"

"- _but_? But what? But _no_? But, _we won't_? Is anybody coming with me?" Each person in the room was leveled at least once with Buffy's inquiring, albeit pissy gaze, but no one spoke up or moved to join her. "Great. I am the chosen _one,_ after all. Don't know why I was expecting backup from my friends."

With one last withering look, the slayer readjusted the weapons bag and stalked her way towards the door. Spike flexed his jaw in frustration as he stared after her. Thick-headed bint was going to get herself killed, and everyone else by extension. And getting dusted really wasn't on his itinerary for the evening.

"Yeah, this is gonna work out great, Slayer," Spike called out. "You gonna duck and roll into Bleak's boudoir, stick a knife at his throat and say, _Mister Magician, Sir, give me back my mum and my kid sis or I'll slice you from gullet to gizzard_?"

Buffy didn't bother to turn around but she did stop walking. Progress, at least. "I was thinking more along the lines of less talking, more stabbing. What's your goddamned point, Spike?"

"Point bein', your backup consists of a vamp who couldn't give Bleaks a wet willie without gettin' a migraine, one vamp-cub who's magic-tank looks _just_ like the bleedin' Sahara at the mo', a knackered witch, and the very human cast of Everybody Loves Rupert. Most of which, I should point out, were stuck impersonatin' the Macy's display window while Bleaks ran off with your fam."

Buffy turned around to scowl at him. "Yeah. Got that. Hence with the John Wayne act."

"You go in there alone, you'll be cashin' in your stakes before the hour's out. And when you're outta the game, Joyce and Snack Size will be joinin' you shortly thereafter. We need time to recoup, and you need all of us."

The slayer put her hands on her hips, and got that Condescending-Buffy look on her face that Spike had seen more often than not. "Riley will go with me."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Well, _hooah_ for Captain America. He can get himself flambeed right next to you, now that he's not drinkin' the Initiative's Ecto Cooler. Do you even where your kin is locked up? Do you know how many soddin' rooms there are in the palatial wonder that Bleakgrave calls home?"

"Do you?" Buffy shot back.

"Seven hundred," Willow interjected weakly, dodging Buffy's gaze. "Give or take."

A whole gamut of emotions ran over Buffy's face before she dropped herself down on the steps that divided the front end of the store, anger and fear vibrating from every muscle in her body. She slipped the strap of her bag off her shoulder, and let it clatter to the floor. Spike relaxed a fraction, gladdened to have won at least one victory for the night.

And then the slayer began to cry.

Big, loud sobs wracked her body, and Spike had no sodding idea what to do, or where to look. Really, he should've enjoyed it, the tough little slayer breaking down like that, but it just felt so wrong watching it. Like staring at the sun as a kid after your mother told you not to. Not that he could do _that_ any more.

Willow was the first to sit beside Buffy, wrapping her slim arms around the crying girl and holding her tightly. Xander followed suit, followed by Anya, and then Spike was watching a blubbering, soppy group hug that made his teeth itch and his stomach heave.

"I don't understand how Bleakgrave found the Coffer," Buffy sniffled, "Did we miss the part where it had a mystical lo-jack on it?"

"Maybe," Willow said, pulling away from embrace and picking up the crumpled paper bag that had "Manny's Magic" printed on it in white block letters. She pulled out the yellow gem they'd purchased, frowning glumly as she rotated it in her hand. "Or maybe he followed you back after you took it. Or maybe he followed someone from Dodger's place? We probably should've been more careful, but Buffy, we're gonna get them back. Nothing's going to happen to them."

Taking a deep breath, the slayer wiped her eyes with her sleeves and looked at Charlie. "How much time do we have?"

"It takes thirty six hours for him to start the physical soul harvesting," Charlie informed her. "There's a bunch of spells he has to do, and he can't touch them until they're complete. So, T minus thirty five hours, assuming that he starts right away."

Buffy nodded. "Alright. We'll play it safe and say thirty five hours. Let's figure out exactly how we're going to do this."

"And by "this", you mean come up with a plan to break into Bleakgrave's place, guns blazing?" Xander asked, his brow deeply furrowed.

"Yeah," Buffy replied.

"Okay, here's how we do it. Step one, come up with a different plan."

"Hey, easy on the sarcasm, Xander," Willow scolded.

"No, he's right." Charlie sat down at the table and leaned forward on her elbows. "I'm not sure we can physically beat Bleakgrave, even if Willow and Buffy are leading the charge. He's untouchable. It's a safer bet to keep a low profile, avoid him entirely if we can."

Buffy folded her arms across her chest. "There has to be a weakness of his, some way to beat him. And we need to find it."

"Most likely there is," the watcher acknowledged, "but the first thing we need to do is find a way into the palace. I tend to agree with Charlie… we're not going to win a fight against Bleakgrave until we've weakened him, so we should focus on inconspicuous ways of getting inside to rescue Joyce and Dawn. We'll need to avoid windows and doors to the outside, but perhaps there is something else… underground tunnels or hidden back door? Catacombs, perchance?"

"Guess it's time to do what we do best," Xander said, standing up and tossing his ice pack onto the register counter.

Spike arched an eyebrow at him. "Balls up the situation even worse?"

"Research," the boy retorted.

Oh, bollocks.

* * *

Spike was chafing after the first sodding hour. While he had been the one to suggest waiting until they had the fortitude and stamina to go up against the magician, Spike's proposition had certainly _not_ included poring over tomes and documents that were twice as old as he was while sitting in a grimly quiet Magic Box. He generally preferred winging his plans. Every plan he'd made had a habit of going sideways, so avoiding the fact-finding mission would just save them some time.

But no one asked for his input, and regardless of his opinions on research, he'd gotten through the better part of four enormous books by utilizing his talents for fast and efficient reading. He'd even made it through the latin bits, which were so dry and tedious that he couldn't fathom getting through another passage without having a smoke. Or a dozen. Standing up and stretching, Spike wandered over to the bookshelves, under the pretense of doing something helpful, but mostly he was bored out of his skull.

"A genie!" Anya exclaimed suddenly.

"Bless you," Willow murmured, not looking away from the floor plans on her laptop screen.

"No, no. I was just thinking, we need a genie to defeat Bleakgrave!" Anya was all smiles as everyone momentarily abandoned their research or lack of thereof to try and make sense of her suggestion. "A genie? You know, trapped in a lamp, grants three wishes, all that. It worked for the kid with the monkey and the flying carpet. He tricked the evil mage into wishing for genie-hood, and locked him away forever in a lamp of his own."

A flash of bewildered silence passed before Giles shut his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. "Shall I go get Robin Williams on the phone, then?"

"Oh, he's got a genie? That's great!"

Much to Spike's displeasure, the study-group sat for almost six more hours, looking through every book with mentions of France and pouring over topographical maps of Sunnydale, dredging up internet articles on Versailles, and scouring European records for anything regarding Bleakgrave's personal history. He broke up his reading sessions with three trips out for a cigarette and one failed attempt to get Charlie into the training room for a quickie. But she was still too worried and far too focused on her task to let anything divert her attention, and Spike let it go when the watcher began glaring threateningly at him whilst sharpening a set of pencils to needlelike points.

By 2 AM, they had found plenty on all the subjects they were looking for, but there was nothing that was of any use to them. That is to say, there was nothing of any use on the subject of Bleakgrave. If Spike had known that Rupert had such detailed maps of their little Hellmouth town, he'd never have bothered breaking into the town clerk's office when he was looking for the Gem of Amara.

"How do you know when you've had too much coffee?" Willow's voice cracked as she spoke, and everyone glanced up from their various books and papers as if woken from a trance.

"Can you see sounds yet?" Charlie asked, watching without much interest as Anya yawned into her fist.

Willow squinted at the middle of the table. "Nope. Just an empty carafe."

"Then I vote for brewing another pot."

Giles cleared his throat and closed the book he had been reading. "No, I think we should adjourn for the night… er… morning. We haven't made any progress, and some rest and a fresh set of eyes will do a world of good."

"But Giles-" Buffy began.

"I know, Buffy. I know," the watcher said compassionately. "A few hours of sleep is all I'm suggesting. We still have some time, so we should use it wisely. No rushed decisions, we need a solid plan. I say everyone goes home, goes to bed, and we reconvene mid morning."

"I can't go home," the slayer said, sounding as though she were about to burst into tears again. "I can't bear the thought of being at the house without… without…"

With a concerned look on her face, Willow lightly grasped the slayer's arm. "Do you want me to spend the night at our dorm? You shouldn't be alone, Buffy. I'll grab Tara and we'll turn it into a slumber party. We need to fill her in anyway."

"Yeah," Buffy said quietly. "I'd like that. And we'll all meet back here in a few hours?"

Around the table, everyone nodded and voiced their agreement.

"Good." The slayer stood, and her chair scraped against the floor as she pushed it back. "Because I need you guys. More than ever."

"You've got us, Buff. This is a kitchen sink kind of deal," Xander said, folding up his map and placing it on the stack they'd been going through. "We're all in."

* * *

The walk back to the crypt was rather gloomy and Charlie's melancholy mindset was obvious. Spike knew there was nothing he could tell her that would ease her mind, so instead of talking, he slipped his fingers into hers as they trekked home. Though she didn't erupt into cheerful conversation, he was comforted by the fact that she gave him a half smile and bestowed his hand with a gentle squeeze.

Lost in his own thoughts as they strolled past sculpted mausoleums and crumbling tombstones, he almost missed the sound of rattling chains as they came within a few yards of their stone abode. Charlie didn't miss it though, dragging him down behind a headstone so quickly that he almost landed on top of her. She let out a low hiss, and her fangs morphed into place.

"Baddies come to play in our neck of the woods, have they?" Spike muttered, slipping into game face and peering out from behind their cover.

"I doubt that there's going to be any playing," Charlie said, gripping the headstone as the chains jangled again in the distance.

Spike narrowed his eyes in the direction of the noises, tensing up even more as a weirdly familiar scent drifted from the direction of the crypt. "Wait here, pet."

"What are you, my bodyguard?" she whispered back, her supernaturally green eyes gleaming angrily in the darkness. "You're not leaving me behind."

For fuck's sake. "Will you for _once_ , just bloody listen to me, woman! I can't have you-"

A girly yell of frustration interrupted his diatribe. It was then that he noticed the golden head of hair bobbing up from over the row of hedges next to the crypt, and he realized that he was smelling an almost toxic amount of fruity body lotion. Reassured that it was neither Bleakgrave or Dodger attempting to ambush them, Spike stormed over to the crypt entrance and halted behind the intruder, making no effort to conceal himself.

The blonde was on her knees in front of the door, with one manicured hand wrapped around the padlock and a bobby pin pinched between the fingers of the other. "Oh. Hi Spike."

Spike almost choked on his own tongue when he realized who it was.

" _Harmony_?"

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Aw, hi guys. I'm still here! And hi to all you new followers and favoriters and lurkers! I'm sorry these updates are a bit slow, but alas, life is doing life things and I'm just getting dragged along behind the bus it's driving. Next chapter has lots of Harmony, and it's funny- I never used to pay much attention to her much until I watched the Harm's Way episode on Angel. And then... I kinda simultaneously liked her and felt bad for her? Kinda._

 _As always, thanks for reading and commenting! I love seeing the alerts pop up in my mailbox and it makes me want to drop whatever I'm doing and write MOAR stuff._

 _xoxo MW_


	31. Chapter 31- Invitations

Harmony Kendall, vampire halfwit extraordinaire, was kneeling in the dirt and trying to pick the lock on the crypt with a sodding hair pin, as though she were the plucky heroine in an Agatha Christie novel. Spike wasn't sure whether to laugh hysterically at the scene, or just stake the bitch and be done with it. His ex stood up to smooth out her tight black skirt and readjust the straps on her pink satin camisole before turning around to face him, her chin jutting out haughtily.

"What the bloody hell are you doin', Harmony?" Spike asked, morphing back to his human form. She looked good at least, in an overdressed, overly made up, night-on-the-town kind of way. But then again, the last time he'd seen her she'd been sobbing and screaming, running out of his crypt barefoot because he'd threatened to dust her. And he would've done it too, had she stuck around any longer.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked, flipping a perfectly curled tendril of hair over her shoulder. He'd forgotten how much her high-pitched, nasally voice sounded like a mewling cat in heat, and he wondered how much he'd need to drink to forget again.

Spike folded his arms over his chest. "It looks like an awful lot like you're tryin' to break into my crypt."

"Well… I'm not. Okay? God," Harmony scoffed, clumsily shoving the hairpin back into her thick blonde locks.

"Then what _are_ you doin'?"

"Trying to get my stuff, and your door was locked."

"You noticed, did you?" he asked, sarcasm in full force. He jerked his head in the direction that led far, far away from his home. "I don't have anythin' of yours, so bugger off, Harm."

Truthfully, there was a whole pile of her shit inside, though he wasn't sure why he'd bothered keeping it. Probably because it took too much energy to get rid of it all. But on the top ten list entitled Things Spike Doesn't Ever Want to See Inside His Crypt Again, Harmony was at least a number six, sandwiched firmly between garlic-infused potato chips and Riley Finn. Unfortunately for Spike, the vampire seemed determined to have her way, and she leaned against the iron bars, further blocking him from getting inside.

It was then that Harmony noticed Charlie standing patiently behind him, simultaneously curious and wary, and his ex gave her a look that would save dairy farmers the trouble of having to curdle cheese. "Who the hell are you, Bimbo?"

Charlie shrugged at the intruder, clearly unimpressed. "Since you already picked out a name for me, I don't see why we should spoil the fun with things like etiquette."

"Spike! Who is she?" Harmony demanded.

"Now that I think about it, I do have somethin' of yours, Harm. Believe it's your beak. Found it in my business. Might want to pull it out 'fore I decide to do some spring cleanin'."

Harmony narrowed her iridescent purple-lidded eyes at Spike. "You know what? I don't care who she is. And do you know why, Blondie Bear?" Spike cringed at the awful pet name, while Charlie hid an amused snort with a cough.

"'Cause you ran out of room in that head of yours?" he drawled.

"I'll tell you why," Harmony continued, heedless of his mockery. "I have a new man in my life. He gives me everything I want, dresses, jewelry, cars, those fuzzy hair bands that Britney Spears wore- like the actual ones she wore in her music video, not the knockoff ones they're selling at drugstores."

Spike scrubbed his hands over his face, his tolerance for Harmony's antics plummeting faster than a Vahrall demon at a Hellmouth sacrifice. "Sounds like a peach. So why then, might I ask, are you back here, lookin' to dig through your castaways?"

"I want my white nightdress. You know, the silky one with all the lace that you liked so much," she said, with a smirk directed at Charlie. "And I want the silver bracelet that I left. It's the only thing that's going to go with the dress my Natey-Poo conjured up for the masquerade he's throwing. It has semi-mental value."

"Natey-Poo?" Charlie asked, her interest suddenly perked.

"What's it to you… tramp that I haven't ever met? I guess if you have to know, he's my boyfriend. He's a magician and he just moved here, made that big mansion. Does everything I ask him to." Harmony skewered Spike with a meaningful glower, "Treats me right."

Charlie stiffened beside him, but Spike didn't dare look at her. He knew they were both already on the same page.

"Spike…" Charlie said, whacking his arm lightly with the back of her hand, "there was that thing… inside… wasn't there? With all that stuff, and stuff? Maybe that stuff is her stuff."

"Uh, yeah, suppose now that she mentions it, might have a few of your odds and ends kickin' around," he said to Harmony, hoping he hadn't insulted his ex to the point of not being able to lure her inside. Spike pulled his key out of his duster pocket and slid it into the padlock, swiftly unchaining the door before Harmony could think too long about the reason behind his sudden change in attitude.

But she didn't seem to care or notice at all, speedily rushing through the entrance to the crypt beside Spike, nearly knocking Charlie out of the way in an effort to get between them.

"Remember somethin' bein' down below in the corner. Be there in a mo'," he said, making a show of the key getting stuck in the lock. Harmony barely hesitated, and the blonde head of hair disappeared down the ladder before Spike had to feign any more door trouble. When he was certain that his ex was all the way down, he unfastened the padlock and started to unwind the chains from around the bars.

"Uh, what are you doing?" About to go down the ladder herself, Charlie stopped at the opening and glanced at the task he was undertaking with alarm.

"Don't worry luv, I'll put them back when we're done."

"Done? Done with _what_?"

He stared at her. "Hello, ransom? One dimwitted bint in exchange for Summers, party of two." Why the hell else would he invite his ex into the crypt?

"Oh, right, because the last time we took something of Bleakgrave's, it turned out so well."

She had a point, but he wasn't seeing a way around it. Unless... "So what are you suggestin' then? Revenge killin'? Bit of an eye for an eye sorta deal?" he asked hopefully, letting the chains go slack against the floor.

"Let's see if we can get her talking. If we can't, and she starts to leave before we get any information, _then_ we'll implement plan Hostage Swap."

"Fine," Spike conceded, "But don't blame me if you wanna impale yourself on a table leg after a half minute of her yappin'. Least with my plan, there'd be a sock stuffed in her mouth."

"Not my socks," Charlie objected, pointing a finger at him before climbing backwards down the ladder. Sighing, Spike followed her.

The state of the cavernous bedroom below was a testament to the fact that he wasn't living alone, which wasn't ideal if their purpose was to keep Harmony appeased and chatty. His mattress had turned into a dumping ground for Charlie's clothes, and the table nearby was littered with a feminine selection of hand cream and body oil. Spike couldn't help taking tremendous pleasure from the look in Harmony's eyes as they alighted on the bra that was dangling by its strap from the side of the headboard.

And under most circumstances, he would have happily continued to rub his new relationship in his ex's face, let her stew in her misery for a while, because hey, evil… well actually, more like... hey, normal; but Harmony's features were twisting into the same shapes as when she found out Spike wasn't taking her to Paris. And it was the exact opposite of what they needed from her.

His ex had been too busy visually compiling evidence of Spike's offences to begin the search for her box of belongings, so Spike hastily pushed her towards the very corner of the room which was serving as the crypt's catch-all. He thrust aside a few extra lamps and vases he'd picked up at the town dump and moved a rolled-up oriental tapestry out of the way.

It was all still there, shoved into the darkest alcove, minus the nightgown that had served as Charlie's burial garb, of course. But the unicorn chapstick, the unicorn glitter candle, the unicorn corkscrew, the thermos decorated with sparkling unicorn stickers, The Last Unicorn book, which Spike was certain Harmony hadn't actually read, and an odd assortment of jewelry all sat molding inside a tattered cardboard box.

Spike pulled it out and plopped it in front of her, its dull brown sides sagging from fullness. "This what you were chasin' after?"

Without replying, Harmony dropped to sit cross legged on the floor, vigorously pawing through receptacle as though she was looking for valuables in the final minutes of an estate sale. With unwavering focus, she sorted through the box's contents while Charlie and Spike stood awkwardly behind her, and the smell of damp paper began spilling into the air around them.

Charlie finally cleared her throat. "So there's a masquerade, huh? That sounds like a good time. When is it?"

"Like you're invited," Harmony sneered, pulling a hairbrush out of the box and chucking it over her shoulder. It missed Spike's head by a scant half inch. "Prominent demons and members of society only."

Revenge killing was quickly becoming the most desirable option.

"Oh, I wasn't asking for me." Charlie gave Spike a sly grin as she moved to lean casually against the crypt wall in front of Harmony. "It's just that Spike talks about you all the time, and I thought maybe _he_ could go and you guys could catch up. Obviously you both have a lot in common and have so much chemistry. It's palpable really, all that longing. All that... sexual tension." Unsure of whether he was more revolted or insulted, Spike shot her a death glare behind Harmony's back.

"Then why is your underwear all over his bed?" Harmony asked, skeptically giving the bedroom another once over.

Charlie's smile fell. "Well, he's uh…. he's just… subletting the crypt to me."

Harmony raised her eyebrows at Spike, as if to ask for his reassurance.

"Needed the cash and Charlie Girl here was willin' to foot the bill," he said with an indifferent shrug. "Gotta second place at Eden Memorial that I'm crashin' at while I fix it up."

"I'm just staying here until I can find a crypt of my own," Charlie added. "Or maybe I should find myself a storage unit? No windows is good, right?"

Spike shook his head. "Nah, units are a dust trap. Nowhere to take cover if the door flies up durin' the light of day."

"Good point. Maybe something will pop up over at Shady Hill. But then again, I always-"

"-Ah! I totally thought you guys were together," Harmony happily chirped, her tone suddenly light and giddy. "Wouldn't that have been so awkward! Actually the masquerade is open invitation, tomorrow night at eight, anyone can come. Just tell the doorman _Abracadabra_ and they'll let you right in." She batted her mascara-slathered eyelashes at Spike, "I suppose I could save a dance or two for you, my Cuddle Bug. Maybe we could even steal away for a few moments… I miss our sexy time games."

"And I miss that sound you make when you stop talkin'," Spike muttered under his breath, mortification and loathing seeping into him.

A look of confusion crossed Harmony's face. "What sound?"

"So, unicorns, huh?" Charlie said in a rush, kneeling to pick up the carved glitter candle. She gave Harmony one of the most fake, radiant smiles Spike had ever seen on her face. "That's so cool."

Harmony's attention was immediately diverted. "Oh, you like them too? God, I just love them."

"Yeah, I mean, they have those…" Charlie glanced at the unicorn she was holding, "...horns. That's like a gut wound waiting to happen. I bet no one picks a fight them. You'd be uni-gored."

"Ew, no, they're just magical and pretty. Natey said he'd make one for me."

"Right, gut wounds are gross, unicorns are pretty," the brunette said, putting the candle back in the box and shifting to sit on the floor beside Harmony. "So do you live at the mansion with… Natey?"

"Basically." Harmony unscrewed the cap to her thermos and sniffed it cautiously, "I'm over there all the time. But I keep a place of my own because I'm a strong, independant woman."

"Of course you are. I've known you for about five minutes, and it's obvious," Charlie said sweetly. She was laying it on thick. Would've been too thick for anyone else, but luckily for them, Harmony had always been dense as a Faulkner novel when it came to compliments. "But if I were you, I'd totally want my magician boyfriend take care of all the meals. He could just snap his fingers and conjure up someone gourmet for you to eat, right?"

"Maybe, but he hasn't," she huffed. "There's plenty of humans he's rounded up but he just keeps burning them through the chest and giving me the leftovers. So disgusting when they taste overcooked. He says I should think of it like they're well done, but I don't think they're done well at all."

"Can't you get a swallow or two in before he parboils them?" Spike asked, though he was actually wondering how a relationship between a mastermind evil magician and an undead moron would even work. Maybe Bleaks enjoyed long, romantic trips to the edge of his sanity.

Harmony shook her head sadly. "Oh no, he stores them in the worst place ever. I can't even bear to go there."

" _Where_?" Charlie inquired, aghast. She quickly recomposed herself, but her voice broke ever so slightly, "I mean, does he leave them in a dungeon? A torture chamber?"

"Huh, I wish. He leaves them in the chapel, can you believe it? Holy water and crosses everywhere. Total appetite killer," Harmony complained, digging her hand down to the very bottom of the box. "Oh, look! Here it is!" she said, hauling out a gaudy silver bangle with a purple stone set into the middle.

Charlie was rubbing knuckle worriedly against her lip, and barely looked at the jewelry. "That's nice," she said.

"Nice?" Harmony repeated, looking deflated. "You think it's totally ugly, don't you? You think it's hideous."

Spike certainly thought so.

"No, no, not at all. It's really lovely," Charlie replied, taking it from Harmony and carefully examining it.

"I can't believe I thought it would look good enough to go with my dress. Maybe Natey can add a diamond to it. Or a dozen. Maybe it should just be completely made out of diamonds. Maybe my whole _dress_ should be made out of diamonds," Harmony babbled, scrambling up and snatching the bracelet out of Charlie's fingers. "I'm sure he'd be willing to do that for me, but I should probably go take care of that. There's so much that we need to do before tomorrow. My hair, my nails, and now my gown… don't even get me started on my shoes."

"Oh, are you sure you have to lea-" Charlie began.

"-Well, don't let us keep you," Spike interrupted, giving Harmony the first genuine smile since their reunion.

"Thanks guys. You know, I didn't think you'd be so helpful, but this was kinda fun." The blonde crossed the floor and began climbing up the ladder. "We should totally hang out tomorrow at the party. Oooh, you can meet Princess Pudding! She's my new pomeranian puppy, cute as a little… cute thing." Harmony's feet vanished past the lip of the opening, and Spike shut his eyes in relief and uttered a soft curse.

"Are you sure she should be leaving already?" Charlie whispered as she walked past him and wrapped her hands around the lower ladder rungs.

"Harm knows zilch about Bleak's plans. If she did, she'd know Buffy was involved and she'd be on my case about polishin' off the slayer. Better she leave now before one of us eats a foot."

"Verbal accidents aside, I'm not above actually eating her, but she smells like a stomach ache waiting to happen," Charlie said as she eased herself up the ladder.

As Spike stepped off the last rung and onto the top floor of the crypt behind Charlie, Harmony was _still_ yammering on about dogs and something about a movie theater. She was one tiny step away from being outside when she stopped abruptly in the doorway. "Hey, wait a minute!" she spluttered, turning around to glare wholeheartedly at Spike. "Do you think I'm stupid or something?"

 _Bugger_. He should have known the whole exchange had gone too easily. Perhaps Harmony had picked up a spot of intelligence to go along with her new self-confidence. Or she'd developed bat hearing. Oh well, abduction or meal time was still on the proverbial table.

"What are you on about?" Spike asked, seeking out the exact distance to the chains. Right next to Harmony's leg, but still wound around the bars, so he'd have to keep her busy while Charlie got the them untangled.

"Oh, sure, pretend like you don't know, Spike, good one!" Harmony responded. "Where's my nightdress?"

The idiotically simple question brought him up short, and he almost laughed aloud at the harmlessness of it.

"Yeah Spike, I was actually wondering the same thing. Where's her nightdress?" Charlie obviously remembered exactly what had happened to the dress, as evidenced by the provocative smirk on her lips. She was clearly trying to make him squirm for dressing her in his ex's clothing.

"Funny story, that," he replied, disregarding Harmony's scowl to focus unwaveringly on Charlie, "Found a little kitty- insolent, sassy thing, all hurtin' and on her last legs. Brought her back to my crypt, nursed her back to health, but I needed somethin' soft to put her in. Dress got all torn up 'cause she didn't know when to sheathe her claws."

"You nursed a kitten back to health?" Harmony asked, her voice saturated with disbelief.

Spike turned his attention back to Harmony. "...Yeah?"

His ex studied his face for a moment, then rolled her eyes. "God, the things you'll do for a poker game. Guess you'll just have to get me something new to wear." She stepped outside, sticking her head back in once to grin at him. "Make sure it's something slinky, my Spikey-Pie. You can give it to me tomorrow and if you're lucky I'll try it on for you." And then, thank everything evil and unholy, Harmony was gone.

"Wowww," Charlie said, refastening the padlock on the chains and shutting the door behind her with an air of finality. She quirked a brow at him. "Were you drunk for the entirety of your relationship or just when you were conscious, Spikey-Pie?"

"Might've liked her more had I been a permanent three sheets to the wind," he considered. "Or even better, if she'd been blowin' in it."

"Yeah, and while we're on the subject of blowing in the wind, let's talk about how I ended up wearing your ex's nightgown. You're in so much trouble." She leaned back against the door for a moment before deciding to advance on him, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"Well then, next time I have to raise you from the dead, luv, I'll be sure to leave you without a stitch on. Dress was brand new, the dumb bint never wore it. Wouldn't've stuck it over your precious head in the first place, had I known you'd give me so much lip about it," Spike replied, eyes glinting as he circled around behind her, as graceful as a cat about to pounce.

"So _you_ peeled off all my clothes _before_ you stuck me in the cheap porno nightie, and then let me believe it was Willow and Tara that had done it? Hope you're prepared for a whole lot of penance." She took a step back as he paced around to face her again, playing a seductive game of cat and mouse.

"Think you're the one in trouble, Missy," he said, inclining his head towards her ear, "Not too keen on hearin' my girl cast me off to my ex."

"Understandable. But now we can walk right into Bleakgrave's house through the front door, wearing masks, while he's otherwise engaged for the night. _And_ we know where he's probably keeping Joyce and Dawn. If that isn't the stroke of luck we were waiting for, than I don't know what is."

"It was a very smart bluff, pet," he agreed. "I suppose it makes us even, but it leaves us with one issue of consequence."

"And what's that?" she asked, shivering as he slid his hands underneath the back of her shirt.

"If I'm gonna have to put up with Harmony tomorrow night, I'll be needin' some payment upfront, on account of pain and sufferin'."

One of her hands slipped around the nape of his neck, meandering through his hair and sending a wave of desire down his spine. "Oh, really? And what did you have in mind?"

"Sarcophagus, shower, ladder, sarcophagus, bed," he purred, punctuating each word with a wet kiss down her neck.

"I could probably get most of that to you by tomorrow, but I don't think Home Depot stocks burial accessories." She gasped as he picked her up and bodily placed her on top of the stone tomb in his livingroom. "Also, we have to go tell Buffy and the others that we have a way in."

"It's three o'bloody clock in the mornin', pet," he pointed out, taking a moment to explore the slant of her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. "Humans are sleepin'. And Spike's busy."

"You're very persuasive, you know," she said, unbuckling his belt and effortlessly unzipping his jeans. Her hand slipped between the parted fabric and found him, eager and throbbing, as hard as the surface she was sitting on. Shutting his eyes, he tilted his head back and let out a throaty groan as she tightened her grip and stroked him with deliberate, leisurely movements.

"You want me," she murmured.

He opened his eyes to regard her as she touched him and watched his expression in return, her face all soft and glowy from the moonlight streaming through the high, iron-barred windows.

"Can't stop wantin' you," he admitted, an unintended moan leaving his throat again as her hand continued its pleasurable assault. "Want you always. You're in my dreams, luv, in my head and my blood, and I still can't get my fill."

Releasing him, she ran her fingers under his shirt hem and up his taut abdominals, easing the garment off along the way. "I don't want you to get your fill of me. But the trying part… lots of that, please," she said, tossing his shirt to the ground.

"Always," he promised.

He cradled her face in his hands and bent towards her, mouth skimming hers, a graze as delicate as a whisper before pulling away. Her lips were cool and sweet, tasting faintly of coffee, and they parted temptingly as he leaned forward to capture them again. And again. And then the delicate kisses gave way to something fuller, something deep and all-consuming. He longed to memorize the taste of her, starting with her tongue, wanted to share the breath they didn't require, needed to make her feel sensations that she'd never felt before.

Charlie leaned back and drew him down with her on top of the tomb, throwing a leg around him and insistently pushing her hips into his. She was a tantalizing blend of soft and firm against his bare chest, and he slid a hand between the stone and the small of her back, pressing her pelvis against his erection in an effort to slow her down.

"Why the _hell_ are we still wearing clothes?" she panted, breaking away from his mouth, and he chuckled at her typical unwillingness to wait. Not that he was feeling particularly patient himself.

"Awful desperate to get to the shaggin' part, luv," he teased, "If it hadn't been me 'tween your nethers not two days ago, would've thought you were some deprived little strumpet lookin' to rid yourself of a decades-long dry spell."

"Two days is a very long time to wait for you to be back 'between my nethers'. It's an eternity, really."

"Wasn't for lack of effort on my part," he reminded her.

"I dunno, there's a whole lot of talking going on right now when there could be stripping. Let's see some of this effort you speak of, Cassanova."

He grinned and obeyed her orders, shucking off the rest of his clothing and turning his attention back to her, all laid out on the slab of stone with her hands resting loosely over her chest as she enjoyed his exhibition. An image flashed in his mind of the night she'd been in the same place, same position, no spark of life in her body and three drops of his blood in her throat, but this was a world away from that night. His fantasies of her at the time had been vibrant, full of detail and sound, but none of them held a candle to what his current reality was.

She was radiant, with her cascade of dark hair, with her knit top the color of violets, with the look of adoration and desire that shone back at him like a bright star in the night sky, and it was then that he knew for sure.

He was in love with her.

A piece of him had already known, of course, since he didn't find himself surprised at the revelation. It was also kind of comical, in a ludicrous, black humor kind of way. A real Romeo and Juliet situation, if Romeo was kind of an asshole who snuffed out a bunch of Capulets before meeting the love of his life, and Juliet was the only Capulet left. Actually, that didn't sound too bad, provided dead Juliet could get over dead Romeo's past transgressions, but it was a thought to be dissected later. Spike had a lady to undress.

He snorted in derision when he was delayed by the double knots she always tied on her boots, amused by the noise of impatience she made. Was her own bloody fault they were bound as tight as a corroded bench vise. Once he'd worked them free, he unlooped the laces eyelet by eyelet, tearing off her boots as soon as they were loosened enough to pull her feet out of them.

With his lips, he traced the faded patterns on the exposed skin above the waist of her jeans before sliding them off and chucking them into the growing mound of discarded clothing. And by the time he had her down to her plain cotton underclothes, the fire in his groin was stoked and blazing, aching to delve into the quenching slickness between her thighs.

"You're so wet for me, aren't you, kitten?" he murmured, running a palm up one of her legs.

"What do you think?" Her pupils were dark and wide as she gazed back at him, and she unfastened her bra with a flick of her fingers and raised her hips as he hooked a finger around the band of the thong she was wearing.

"Think you wanna feel me inside that pretty little quim of yours," he replied, sliding the garment down her legs at an unhurried pace, and dragging his knuckles over her silky inner thighs. Her skin felt electric beneath his touch and he hesitated once he'd removed the last scrap of fabric to appreciate her in fully naked glory.

"So, so beautiful," he whispered. And she was, pink and ivory with the faint tracings of turquoise veins, and the barest traces of shadow tattoos. His fingers roamed over the curves and hollows of her form as though it were his own personal version of Braille. "Gonna make you feel so good, baby."

"Gonna make _you_ feel so good, Spike," she said, a heat drenched declaration. She leaned back and widened the space between her thighs just enough for him to get a steamy, comprehensive view of things to follow.

It was all the invitation he needed, and he crawled forward on his elbows and covered her body with his. She arched up into him, and he pressed himself just as hard against her, wrapping an arm tightly around her back as though he were holding on to heaven itself. One smooth push of his hips and he was in, moving at a heartbeat's tempo while the sound of her moans and the cadence of skin hitting skin urged him onwards.

"Oh god, right there, yeah, right there…"

He watched her face contort with pleasure, and he devoured it and demanded more, "That's it Charlie, fuck, feel it luv, gonna make you come so hard, so bloody tight, harder, harder, fuck, that's it…."

At some point, they managed to flip positions without falling off the rough, unyielding surface of the tomb, and it pressed into Spike's backside and scratched his skin every time he thrust his hips to meet hers. He forgot about Dru, forgot about Bleakgrave, forgot about death itself. The only thing he could focus on was Charlie's face and the feel of her body, and in that moment, he realized that he was incandescently happy.

He'd never felt so alive, even when his heart had been beating. He whispered poetry against her flesh when he wasn't tasting it, wove his hands into her hair when he wasn't grazing her curves with the pads of his fingertips. He soaked up her gentle caresses and cool touches like a sponge and hoped he'd never be wrung out.

Only when they were too spent and gratified to move, did they curl up in the sheets and sleep, still damp from the shower, still sore from the various surfaces they'd laid and leaned and kneeled on, their limbs entwined and Spike's heart burstingly full. Neither woke until the mid-morning sun tried in vain to cast its rays inside.

"Ready?" she asked, after they'd woken and she'd eaten and dressed, and then crawled back into bed to entangle herself once more within his arms.

He wanted to say no, wanted to keep her right where she was, but he knew they were almost out of time and the others would be waiting for them.

"Ready," he replied.


	32. Chapter 32- Smoke and Mirrors

"Yeah. Yeah, this could work."

The slayer and the Scoobies were collected in Giles's modest apartment, attentively listening to Spike tell the tale of how Harmony inadvertently let Bleakgrave's secrets slip, and how they'd been given an invite to the masquerade. Spike had avoided the watcher's home as much as possible due to some post-traumatic-bathtub-disorder, but with both the Summer's residence and the Magic Box being deemed as unsafe, it was the only place left that everyone was willing to congregate. And surprisingly, Watcher still hadn't gotten around to disinviting him. The lack of concern was downright offensive.

With one elbow propped on the wooden arm of the couch she was sitting on, Buffy rubbed the side of her neck, and Spike noticed that some of the color that had been missing since the previous night had slipped back into her cheeks. The slayer nodded her head thoughtfully as she digested the story of what had transpired at the crypt. "I mean, I'm not loving the idea of having Bleakgrave and a few hundred of his closest friends so nearby, but I doubt we'll get another chance."

The watcher looked up from behind the pass-through to the kitchen. "Opportunity seldom knocks twice," he agreed.

"Unless it's selling something, and then it'll knock a dozen times and leave a flyer taped to your doorknob after you pretend you're not home." Willow grabbed a cracker out of the box she'd pilfered from Giles's cabinets. "Not that I've ever done that," she added, plopping herself down on the couch between Buffy and Xander.

"Of course not," Giles replied drolly, sliding several mugs of tea across the pass-through.

The only beverages Rupes had stocked in his cupboards were three fresh boxes of English Breakfast and a handful of expired packets of instant coffee, the latter likely kept for the idea of overnight guests rather than the reality of them.

Charlie had attempted making the coffee, but when it turned out looking more like the sludge in the sewers than drinkable, she'd dumped the whole pot down the sink drain. "So Harmony…" she began, wrapping her hands around one of the proffered jadeite mugs, "she's not exactly the sharpest set of fangs in the graveyard, is she?"

Xander smirked and nudged Willow with his elbow. "Remember when Harmony was voted _Most Likely to Get Stuck In A Tanning Booth_ in our high school yearbook? Funny how things turn out sometimes."

"You know, it always surprised me that she even knew how to turn the tanning booth on," Buffy muttered, shaking her head.

"Her favorite color is glitter," Willow added.

"Okay, noted," Charlie said, shuffling through Giles's cabinet of condiments and baking ingredients, "dangerous to brain cells. But also unwittingly helpful to Scoobies."

Buffy made a noise of agreement. "Harmony's certainly made our plan simple, I'll give her that. We can infiltrate the masquerade, and rescue my mom and Dawn while Bleakgrave's busy dancing the night away. I just wish we could do away with him while we're at it."

"Could spike the punch bowl with somethin' nasty," Spike suggested as he watched Charlie swirl a teaspoon of sugar into her tea.

"So that's how you got your name?" Charlie asked, one of her eyebrows edging towards her hairline. She crossed the room and went to sit on the arm of the upholstered chair Spike had dumped himself into, but made no protest when he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to sit in his lap.

"Sure, Spike, we'll poison the punch bowl and then swap out the party favors for miniature explosives, I'm sure nobody will notice," Buffy said, far more pissily than what Spike felt his suggestion should merit. "What do you think, bomb on a spoon or ribboned gunpowder sachets?"

And although Bitchy Buffy was better than Blubbering Buffy, she didn't get a pass from him on account of kidnapped family.

"That depends, Summers. You plannin' on settin' off the gunpowder sachets yourself? Might lose a limb or two. Would certainly be entertainin' fightin' a literal _unarmed slayer_."

"Well you're the one who always has a lighter handy. The honor of accidental dismemberment can fall to you."

A little cough from the floor grabbed everyone's attention, and Spike was amused to see Tara playing the role of slayer-vampire referee. Seemed as though Glinda had taken a sip from the cowardly lion's cup. About time. "W-what if we brought the Hepetilium stone?" the witch piped up from her place at Willow's feet. "Find the Coffer and try to destroy it again with the spell?"

"We could try," Willow said, "but who knows where Bleakgrave's keeping it now or what it looks like. Either way, I don't think we're going to have a whole lot of time for exploration. Everyone feeling up to a little search and rescue tonight?"

There was a mumble of agreement.

"Once we're in the palace we should split up, one group to rescue Dawn and Mom in the chapel, and one to keep an eye on Bleakgrave's whereabouts during the party. If there's time, we can search for the Coffer. Since some of us are wearing dresses, we can probably hide a giant bunch of weapons underneath our skirts, _and_ we've got Willow, Tara, and Charlie to do a little magic backup."

Xander cleared his throat. "When you say that some of us are wearing dresses…"

"Not you."

"Thank god."

The earthy scent of the steam from the Charlie's tea filled Spike's nostrils when she rested the mug on her knee. "Err… I'm not so much with the magic. I ran out of juice at Dodger's. Apparently tossing a few hundred pounds around without using your hands takes up a lot of energy, but it was fun while it lasted."

"You're not walkin' in there without some sorta defense, pet. Red, you mind bein' Charlie Girl's liquid mojo refreshment?"

Spike watched the line of Buffy's mouth go tight at his request, but the slayer didn't protest when Willow nodded in agreement and began to stand.

"No, I'll do it," Tara said, putting a hand on Willow's knee. "Y-You should be at full strength, and my blood shouldn't be all that different from yours. A bit less powerful, maybe, but still usable."

"Are you sure?" Willow asked, reaching out to stroke her girlfriend's hair.

"Yeah, I wanna h-help." Tara glanced at the underside of her wrist, the same place where Willow had been fed from. Her eyes flashed to Charlie. "So… should we do this here?"

Everyone who wasn't a vampire suddenly found their shoes or beverages fascinating. Bunch of sissy prigs. "Bathroom?" Charlie suggested, acutely aware of the uncomfortable silence that filled the room.

"Bathroom," Tara agreed.

Charlie handed her drink to Spike, and both girls headed off to the bathroom, closing the door behind them.

"So what's the plan after the rescue mission?" Xander asked, breaking the spell that had the majority of the humans staring pallidly at the bathroom door. "The after-plan, as it were."

Buffy shrugged. "Mom and Dawn will leave town, and we'll prepare to fight the fight, but preferably not at Bleakgrave's palace. I don't want to encounter him anywhere he'll have an advantage. I called Angel, and he'll be here first thing tomorrow. If we can hold off on a confrontation until then, we'll have an actual chance."

Angel. Of course she called the poofter. Spike wasn't sure who was going to be less pleased to see the vampire, him or Charlie. At least he might get to see the look on Cardboard's face when the soldier found out who Angel was. _But back to more pressing matters._

Spike leaned forward in his chair, and it creaked under his weight. "So let me get this straight. You're gonna steal the Bit and Joyce out from under Bleak's nose, and then you think he's gonna sit back and twiddle his thumbs until we're ready to get in the ring with him? Think he's gonna have a bone of contention 'bout that."

"When I'm through with him, he's not going to have any bones left. I'm going to beat them into itty-bitty pieces and then he can have a finely milled powder of contention," Buffy snapped.

"Do you have an option number two, Spike, or are you just being contrary?" Giles asked tiredly, though the question sounded suspiciously like sarcasm rather than an actual request for his opinion.

"Man such as Bleaks can only be placated or eviscerated. There's no middle ground for a Big Bad like him."

You're saying that if we take Dawn and Joyce, we need to either kill Bleakgrave or persuade him with goods or services to keep him off our backs?" Anya asked. "That sounds very reasonable, actually. But if he's too strong to kill, what could we bribe him with? A thorough castle cleaning? A cursed sword? Ooooh, we could give him the heart of a virgin!"

" _Heart of a virgin_?" Horrified, Giles sputtered out some of the tea he was sipping.

"Step right up, Rupert. Promise it won't hurt a bit." Spike grinned fiendishly when the watcher scowled at him.

"What do you get the magician that has everything?" Buffy frowned into her hands. "According to Harmony, he can conjure up whatever he wants."

"Not everything," Giles murmured as he poured himself more hot water, and the seed of an idea began taking root in Spike's head.

"Money? We could rob a bank, give him our earnings." Demon Girl looked far too eager commit a felony.

"No, that's not it!" Willow exclaimed, drumming a finger on the low table in front of her. "What's the only thing that Bleakgrave can't create with the snap of his fingers? The only thing he wants?"

"Stage time!" Xander answered.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Harris, who ties your shoelaces?"

"Souls, Xander," Willow corrected. "It's his only currency… that's what we need to focus on."

"Give him two souls for taking two souls? Are black market souls a thing we can get?" Buffy asked.

"If they aren't, I'd be happy to volunteer Willy and Dodger for our first annual Yankee Soul Swap," Xander said.

Spike should have expected it, but the ridiculous Scoobies with their naiveté and honorable tactics were headed down the entirely wrong path. That or the whole lot of them had slept through all their history classes, which wouldn't have surprised Spike in the least. Fighting dirty. _That_ was the road to dead magicians and crumbled palaces.

"Whole idea of an even trade for souls, or shiny, mystical baubles- bloody stupid, it is. The Greeks didn't go, _ooh! Trojans took our Helen so we should give them a nice prezzie so they'll stop taking our ladies_. Stuck a bunch of soldiers inside a timber filly, infiltrated Troy, burned and hacked it to the ground. That's how wars are won, kiddies. Bleaks needs to tear off some giftwrap an' find a sharp pair of teeth waitin' for him."

"So what are you suggesting?" Buffy asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

Spike smiled. "Thought you'd never ask, Slayer."

* * *

Three minutes later, Spike had gone over his simple plan twice, but judging by the looks on the faces of everyone listening, he might as well have explained the whole damned thing in Fyarl.

"I don't understand… why would you be willing to do that for my mom and Dawn?" Buffy had listened to Spike's plan both times without interruption, but once he was finished, she seemed to have plenty of doubts to express on the subject. Everyone else waited for his answer with expressions of equal skepticism.

"Fond enough of them, aren't I? Mind your own, Slayer, shouldn't matter to you. What matters is that Bleaks would be weakened and you can totter off with your mum and Niblet."

Giles pushed his wireframes a little higher on his nose and fixed Spike with a dubious stare. "And we're supposed to believe that for the rather extraordinary amount of effort and risk on your part, you don't want something in return? Not _a year's supply of blood_? _Merry bushels of cash_?"

"Not that I'd turn it down if you were offerin', but no. Wanna watch Bleaks burn. Your gig is to keep Charlie Girl out of the loop, get her out of Chateau du Wanker when things get hot. And until then, you all keep your traps shut 'bout this, 'cause she'll put up a fuss and stick herself right in Bleak's path if she figures out what act two of the plan is."

Anya slapped the coffee table like she was ringing the buzzer on a gameshow. "Wait a minute! You're not doing this for Dawn and Joyce, you're in love with Charlie! You're doing this to protect her!" she exclaimed, rather loudly for the small space they were in.

There were some days that Spike liked the ex demon more than the rest of the group. Today wasn't one of those days. "Keep your bloody voice down, will you?" he hissed, while everyone else let the epiphany sink in. "Haven't told her." He was waiting for the right moment, perhaps one filled with candlelight and soft breezes, or at least one that felt some semblance of right. Not yet, though. Not yet.

"Okay, that's fair. Charlie stays out of the line of fire," Buffy agreed. "You two can keep track of Bleakgrave while the rest of us work on getting mom and Dawn out. It'll just be observe and report, no action."

"Spike, I don't doubt that you have an attachment to Charlie, much like your sire connection with Drusilla, but it's not love," Giles said condescendingly. "Without a soul, you're incapable of it, which leads me to believe that you have an ulterior motive..."

Giles wasn't entirely wrong, but as with most things involving vampires, good old Rupert might as well be wearing a nametag that read _Captain Prejudiced_ , _Amateur Parascientist_. The nametag obviously came in a set with tweed pants and a lumbar-support chair at the Wanker's Council table.

"You'd like to think that a soulless vamp couldn't feel love, wouldn't you, Watcher? All the books you've read, all your studies… wouldn't mean anythin' if you've been fundamentally wrong all this time, amiright?"

"Wrong about what?" Charlie asked, returning to the living room with Tara. Her cheeks were pink, and as she settled herself back into Spike's lap, her skin felt unusually warm where her bare arm touched his. She looked around the room expectantly.

"About…" Buffy's eyes flickered to one of the watcher's decorative throw pillows, "...wearing the color yellow to the masquerade. It'll draw way too much attention to us, Giles, I don't think we should do it."

"How silly of me to suggest it," Giles muttered.

"So what _are_ we wearing?" Xander asked, pushing the safe topic further along the tracks. "My Jasson mask isn't really gonna cut it for a swanky dancing party."

"I bet Professor Addams can help us with that!" Willow said. "He did a production of Phantom of the Opera for UC Sunnydale Drama last year and I heard him complaining the other day about all the Venetian masks and props that are still cluttering up the costume department storage."

Tara nodded in agreement, "I know his TA, so I can get us into the s-storage room. But what about dresses and stuff?"

"Old high school prom gowns and rental tuxes?" Buffy asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly at Spike as though he went to masquerades thrown by evil magicians all the time.

"What? Verbal invitation didn't exactly spell it out, you know. Haven't been to one of these stuffed-up soirees since the mid 90's."

"You can't remember a party from a few years ago? Were you plastered?"

"The 1890's," Spike clarified.

"Oh."

"Prom dresses and tuxes aren't going to make Joan River's top ten for a demon masquerade," Anya informed them all. "I once saw a Daveric Demon wearing a knitted dress of intestines, and that was _the_ most celebrated outfit of the night. Though I guess if we're trying _not_ to stand out, satin and taffeta would be preferable."

Xander started laughing nervously. "So I can't wear my gallbladder getup? Or my spleen suit? Or my colon-"

"-quiet, honey," Anya said, patting him on the hand. "Everyone knows that spleens don't stitch together well."

The panic-stricken look on Xander's face was downright delectable.

Buffy got up to rinse out her empty mug in the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to address the group when she was finished. "Alright, so Tara, Charlie, and I will head to campus and grab masks and see what we can scrounge up in terms of dresses. We'll find Riley and see if he can spare a few of his commandos for perimeter patrol tonight in case things get ugly. Xander and Anya, you guys grab weapons from the Magic Box and take care of tuxes. We'll all meet back here asap."

"What about everyone else?" Charlie asked.

"Huh?"

"Spike, Willow, and Giles… what are they doing?"

The slayer scratched the back of her head. "Uhh… they have a… a thing to do."

"Just some last minute spell stuff," Willow said with a good natured smile. "Easy peasy."

Charlie didn't seem to be entirely convinced, casting an understandably confused glance at Tara, who for all intents and purposes always stayed with Willow to do anything magic related, and then at Spike, who tried to quell her anxiety with a careless, one-shouldered shrug. "Master vamp blood," he said. "Good for amplifyin' the mojo."

Hesitantly, Charlie uncurled herself from him, and he immediately mourned the loss of heat and solid feel of her. But at least she was willing to leave without asking further questions. "Be careful," she said, a crease forming between her brows, before she kissing the corner of his mouth and heading off into the dusk behind the rest of the group.

And then Spike was left staring at Willow, still sitting directly across from him. "Sure you're up for this, Red?" he asked cautiously. "Don't wanna get turned into a toad or wear my innards as my outards…"

"No, I think I can handle this. It's basically just a glamour spell… and… then it's gonna hurt a little," she winced, "well, maybe a lot, but I'll make it quick, promise."

"But not _too_ quickly," Giles said, smiling a too-happy smile at him. "This does call for accuracy."

* * *

"Christ, Red. That bloody buggering _hurt."_

"Yeah, but... hey, done. And look, you can't even tell," Willow pointed out. She studied him for a moment before lighting a few candles and moving on to her next project.

It was true. Nothing about Spike looked out of the ordinary. He didn't feel quite right though, and he leaned back into the couch cushions as a wave of dizziness tore through him, trying to focus his attention on some strange incantation Willow and Giles had started doing on a set of necklaces.

He breathed in the smoke of the mint and rosemary they were burning, let the words of the Latin they spoke blur themselves into an unrecognizable hum of noise, cleared his mind, and fell asleep. He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but it was full dark by the time everyone started returning.

The whelp and his ex demon were the first to arrive back, loudly hauling two duffel bags through the door, both so filled with weapons that neither could be zipped closed. Spike opened his eyes, rubbed them wearily, and sat up. Two black garment bags and an autumnal colored gown were slung over Anya's shoulder, and she dropped one of the garment bags into Spike's lap. "I had to guess," she said. "You're not as tall or as shapely as Xander, but the guy at the rental was about your size. He said it should fit."

Spike cautiously unzipped it, half expecting to find something powder blue with ruffles, but it was just a standard black suit and off-white dress shirt. Pulling the jacket out, he gingerly shrugged into it and found that though it was a touch loose in the shoulders, Anya had done a decent job with her selection.

The remaining three girls arrived just as Spike was tugging the rest of the tux out of the bag, their arms nestled with frothy puffs of netted fabric and glossy, colorful swaths of satin. A woven basket filled with a variety of embellished half-masks swung from the crook of Tara's elbow.

Buffy handed over a navy dress with a gold sequined bodice to Willow, keeping a mauve gown for herself. "Never thought we'd end up wearing our senior prom dresses again," she said, "And yet, there they were, in our closet at the dorms because it hurt too much to get rid of something we spent six months of allowance on."

"Aw, well I dig mine out at least once a month," Willow said with a small grin, holding the dress against her front. "Have myself a fancy afternoon at the laundromat or vacuuming at the dorm. I call it Spiffy Sanitation Day."

"I guess that leaves t-these," Tara said, laying a dress down on the easy chair alongside the two that Charlie had been carrying. "At least the drama department had something to choose from."

Charlie snorted. "They're _something_ alright… do you want the Blue Tulle Nightmare, the Stripper Barbie Reject, or Always the Bridesmaid?"

"Oh, you can p-pick. I'll take what's left," Tara replied.

"How about we flip a coin for Bridesmaid?" Charlie picked up the rose colored chiffon and waved the fabric around, scowling a little at the thickness of the skirt.

"Actually, there is one more option," Giles said, in an almost embarrassed tone. "Just give me a moment." He headed up the stairs to his loft bedroom and Spike could hear him rustling around under the bed. The watcher came back down a short time later with a box marked "Jenny" cradled in his arms.

"She didn't have much at her apartment, but the landlord was threatening to throw everything away after she…" the watcher paused, rubbing the heel of his palm against his chest. "So I boxed it all up and donated most of it, kept a few things that I didn't feel was right to part with."

Setting the box on the floor, the watcher opened the cardboard flaps. Curious, Spike craned his neck to see inside, only catching a glimpse of a book on computer networking, a piece of jewelry trimmed with antique coins, and a garish red and green coffee mug before Rupert found what he was looking for and closed the box again. A simple, elegant slip dress made out of deep eggplant silk pooled in the watcher's hands. "I don't exactly have a use for this," he said sheepishly to Charlie, "and really, all of these items should belong to you anyhow."

His long, squared fingers drifted over the fabric, and his eyes looked distant, halfway to lost. "She wore this to the homecoming dance," he murmured. "As a chaperone, of course. Couldn't take my eyes off of her. Never could, really. She lit up every room, every hallway…"

Giles's watery eyes were threatening to spill over, and Charlie clasped her hands lightly on top of his. "It's perfect, Giles. But you should keep the rest. She'd want that, I think."

The watcher nodded his head and gave her a humble, grateful smile before retreating back up to his bedroom with the box.

"We need to start getting ready," Buffy announced, her eyes fixed on Giles's clock, the hour hand pointing halfway between the six and the seven. "With one bathroom, this is going to take a while."

And then all five girls crammed themselves into Giles's tiny bathroom at the same time, while Xander and Spike changed in the livingroom. It only took five minutes to don his tux, and Spike reclined on the olive couch after, flipping through early evening sitcoms and trying to block out his discomfort and the overpowering chemical scent of hairspray that rolled out from underneath the bathroom door like a fog.

After an eternally long hour, the bathroom door finally reopened, liberating the fumes of hot hair implements and fragrant cosmetics and releasing the sound of swishing fabric and the click of heels. One by one they emerged, Buffy, Red, Glinda, Demon Girl, all coiffed and made up and looking every bit the part of a glamorous party goer.

Spike sat up straight, a lump forming in his throat as Charlie exited behind the rest of them. Her hair was a mass of dark curls, pinned and twisted into an artful pile on top of her head. Someone had done her makeup, and her eyes, framed by dark lashes and mysterious navy shadows immediately sought him out.

But it was the dress that almost turned him into a stuttering schoolboy. A hazy, shimmering red-purple, it draped over her body seductively, and he realized that it dipped almost to her lower back when she turned around once for him.

"Thought we were supposed to be low profile," he said hoarsely.

"We are. Which is w-why we brought you this," Tara said, pulling a squeeze bottle out of the mask basket and handing it to him. "T-tinted hair gel, courtesy of the drama department c-closet we raided," she explained. "The bleach blonde… it's kinda..."

Spike arched an eyebrow, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from his girl and her plum dress. "Trademark?"

"Tacky?" Xander submitted unhelpfully.

"Unsubtle," Charlie asserted. "Bleakgrave has seen you enough times that a mask might not be enough to conceal your identity. The gel will rinse out, but it should temporarily darken your hair a few shades."

"Better wash out," Spike grumbled.

Several frustrating minutes later, all of which Spike spent flexing his fingers with the desire to snatch the offending brown hair gel from Charlie's hands and hurl it across the room, Spike was back to a natural hair color. It bothered him. His hair could be white or black or sodding blue for all he cared, but it was a crucial facade that separated him from his pathetic human life. All he could see in his head when he envisioned his current appearance was William with his foppish bronze curls.

While Anya emptied the two duffels of weapons onto the couch, Spike nipped a cigarette out of his carton of Morleys, catching sight of his fingernails. At least his chipped black polish hadn't fallen victim to the Anti-Spike Style Squad. He lit the cigarette, knowing full well he was in complete violation of Giles's house rules, but due to nerves or indebtedness, no one mentioned it. Giles didn't even crack a window when he came back down the stairs.

Demon Girl pulled the last armament, a sharp iron hatchet, out of the now-limp canvas bag and with a loud clang, placed it with the rest. The sheer amount of sharp, dangerous objects that were heaped into a mountain-like pile on the sofa bordered on absurd, but Buffy eyed them appreciatively. "Well, I'm feeling more optimistic now. According to that pile, we're an army of eighty."

"We didn't know what to bring so we brought everything we could carry," Anya explained, tossing the duffel aside.

"Where do you guys get all this stuff anyway?" Charlie asked, "Axes, swords, throwing stars… holy water?"

"Oh, well, the holy water's easy, we make it ourselves. Just have to boil the hell out of it," Xander said, then laughed uproariously at his own joke.

Willow groaned. "He means Anya orders it from a place in Reno."

"I'm not even sure what to bring," Buffy said, picking up an axe and putting it down again with a sigh. "We need our own weather forecaster, but you know, for battles. A battle forecaster."

Charlie cleared her throat, "Like, _tonight, Bleakgrave's Masquerade will mostly painy, with a sixty percent chance of death or exploding chest syndrome_."

Buffy blinked at her. "Yeah, just like that. But maybe a little more positive."

"Well, whatever the battlecast, make up your mind on what to bring 'cause we're closing in on party time," Anya said, lifting her skirt just enough to sheath two daggers to a leather thigh strap.

Buffy fastened a sword and scabbard under her dress, and with a grimace, slashed a slit in the fabric near her hip so she could easily reach the hilt. While the rest of the Scoobies smuggled knives and enchanted charms into pockets and down plunging necklines, the Slayer tore a few holes in the lining of her skirt to hide a cluster of shurikens.

Spike was sure that if there were any giant magnets at the palace, they'd all be royally fucked.

Masks were next, and Spike managed to select the only masculine one of the bunch, a solid black piece with carved fleur de lises. Xander tried to get his greedy hands on it, but Spike's vampire reflexes vastly outmatched the human's speed, and the whelp ended up with a lacy white monstrosity. The side feather plumes were a nice, dainty touch. "And now we add _Xander with the funny lady mask_ to the list of never-ending Xander-atrocities," the boy muttered.

Charlie's mask was pure silver, vines and flowers looping around the edges like delicate lace, her eyes shining darkly out from behind it. She looked bewitching, and Spike couldn't help but worry that her appearance would attract one too many stares.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" Willow said, interrupting Spike's trance as she grabbed two identical necklaces off the kitchen counter. She handed one to Charlie and secured the other one around her neck, its clear crystal sliding on a silver chain to rest just below the notch at the base of her throat.

"Tap the pendant with your finger three times if Bleakgrave leaves the masquerade. My gem will turn blue and warn us that he's coming," Willow explained, tapping Charlie's gem in demonstration. The stone around the witch's neck pulsed a bright sapphire before fading back to colorless. "And likewise, once we get Joyce and Dawn out, I'll send you the all clear and _your_ pendant will turn blue. Then you guys can hightail it outta there."

"Got it," Charlie said, fastening the tiny clasp behind her neck.

Buffy began heading towards the exit to Giles's apartment. "Giles, you'll be gassed up and ready with the car, right? If we get them out, you can't stop for anything. Aunt Lolly knows you're coming, but I didn't tell her why. Just make something up about Ted or break-ins at the house or whatever."

"Of course," Giles said reassuringly. "I'll be ready."

"Okay. Then let's do this," the slayer said, her voice as tempered and solid as the sword hidden at her side, and she opened Giles's front door for her companions.

Spike's throat felt bruised, and his chest felt like it housed a live bee colony, but he trusted that Red had done her job well. Still, his cigarette had done nothing to quell the anxiety in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something disastrous was on the horizon.

He knew the cost of his plan. And he knew that peril was laying in wait for him, as silent and as menacing as a hungry crocodile.

But he tucked his arm into Charlie's and swallowed his fear, as unflinchingly as he'd swallowed the Hepetilium stone, and began the long walk to Versailles.


	33. Chapter 33- Masquerade

_Even Xander could track down Bleakgrave's royal residence_ , Spike thought idly. The git could be blindfolded and listening to the screechy, toilet-humor vocal stylings of Blink-182 on his portable, neon-orange CD player, and he'd still get there. No need for acute vampire hearing with the racket Bleaks was making.

The loud buzz of violins and cellos seemed to echo through the trees, building from a muddled hum to a distinct melody the further up the winding trail to Kingman's Bluff the team walked. An occasional deep exhale from one of the humans and the muffled rattle of hidden weapons were the only other sounds that permeated the darkness, which only seemed to add to the tense mood. Even the damned crickets were quiet. _That_ was disturbing.

Spike stole a glance at the others. Buffy, in a mask of golden flames was leading her army like an angry Boudica, with Demon Girl and Harris just a step behind her. Red was walking hand in hand with Glinda, who in her pink fluffy gown, did in fact look an awful lot like _the_ Glinda. And on Spike's other side, Charlie still had her arm linked in his. He was glad to see that there wasn't much trepidation in her eyes when she returned his watchful stare, a little magic in her blood the only necessity to restore her courage. He brought her hand to his lips, then refocused his attention forwards.

As they came around a bend in the path, Versailles finally rose into view, and the group paused briefly to catch their breath and get their bearings. It was a thing to behold, all silhouetted in golds and ambers against the dusky blue of the night sky. And though it was sprawled out imposingly over acres of the hilly field, the warm stone facade and noisy, albeit gentile music coming from within bestowed it with it an almost inviting flare.

"Good Godric's Hollow!" Xander declared, lifting his ridiculous feathered mask so he could better see the enormous chateau. "Bleakgrave may have failed the written for ethics, but he gets high marks for the swank."

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "There's a giant gold clock on his house," she said, pointing out the offending device in the center of the building. "Not _in_ it. _On_ it. That's not swank, that's screaming 'Hey, I'm Crazy and Loaded, Inquire Within'."

"Clock's always been there. Wasn't a Bleakgrave addition, jus' how it was built," Spike said, taking an undesired jog down Memory Lane.

Spike had seen Versailles once, a very long time ago. He'd walked by the real one in Paris, though it'd been from a fair distance away and he hadn't paid it much mind at first. Dru had been too busy stalking a young Parisian girl in a frilly lace dress, pink cheeks matching the rosettes on her collar, and he'd been too busy making sure Dru didn't strike too close to the crowds.

And after they'd both fed on the blood that had tasted like strawberry crepes and laughed merrily down Rue Colbert, Dru had stopped to stare at the palace, holding out her hands towards it as though she could embrace its sumptuous walls.

"It twinkles," she'd said, tilting her face to the side and studying the lights in the windows. "Like stars and fairy lights, faces, faces, come as you aren't. And you'll dance with the moon, my William, and she'll steal you away."

"Not to worry, luv. I far prefer my dark, wicked plum to a soddin' chunk of rock stuck in the sky," he'd said, glancing decisively upwards at the pale, glowing orb nestled between the stars.

"She'll fill you up with moonbeams and whisper her secrets in your ear. She'll love you better than all the rest," Dru had moaned, and he'd wrapped his arms around her, comforting her with quiet, shushing noises.

"I love you, Dru, not the moon. No need to fret over it."

"Oh, I know," she'd said after a moment, turning and smiling one of her secret smiles at him. "You'll speak of misdeeds and she'll take her favor back. Back, back, back, and then you can be mine once more."

It'd been a rather unmemorable exchange, since Dru was always spouting off oddities and nonsense and cryptic visions. This particular one had ended with Drusilla insisting that she could fly off L'arche de Triomphe like a sparrow and land in a teacup filled with daisies. But seeing the bright lights shining forth from Bleakgrave's palace brought the memory careening forward from a hundred years past, plucked from the dusty box in Spike's head that was brimming with all the memories of his sire. Caught up in the recollection, he looked around for the moon in the evening sky, wondering if a century and Dru's unfaithfulness had indeed bettered his opinion of the satellite.

And there it was, slightly obscured by layers of nighttime clouds, but still glowing with the soft, silvery beauty that his favorite poets always went on about. He could understand the attraction better now, he supposed. Mysterious and intriguing, it was a vampire's version of the sun, consistent in its rising and always just a little bit out of reach. Yes, he supposed that he would have been better off howling at the moon than up the misery tree that was Drusilla.

A few words of group encouragement from the slayer refocused Spike's attention, and with one last examination of the palace maps, the gang continued onward. They followed Buffy past the commandos at the edge of the woods, the soldiers' presence only given away by the brief static whoosh of a radio and one crunching footstep in the bushes. And then soft, grassy earth gave way to cobblestones, and they were standing in front of the palace's gold crusted front gates, the bars glimmering with sharp, electric currents of magic. The entranceway was sealed closed.

"Hello?" Buffy called out, careful not to touch the gate. "Anybody home?"

No one answered, though it was doubtful that anyone could have heard her over the symphony coming from inside the palace. Somewhere nearby, something bayed a lonesome song of its own. Perhaps a dog, but probably something fouler.

"Are we sure that we're in the right place?" Xander asked after a minute passed and nobody came out to greet them.

Buffy's eyes glittered irritatedly from behind her mask. "Yeah, Xander, maybe Harmony meant the _other_ party at the _other_ palace in the _other_ Sunnydale."

"Just asking, jeez."

"But if we're in the right place, then who are we supposed to say _Abracadabra_ to-" Willow began.

The iron gates swung open soundlessly.

Xander made an appreciative noise. "Now that was cool."

There was no one in the courtyard that seemed to stretch for miles, but the forms and shadows of humans and demons milling around inside could be seen through the tall windows of the palace. The closer they got to the entrance, the more the u-shaped structure seemed to enclose around them. The music stopped and started up again, a two-step this time, as the group came within range of a trio of sunshine-colored doors at the entryway to the palace.

"Three yellow doors that lead to the masquerade," Buffy murmured, holding up the weighted hem of her gown as she slowed her footsteps over the clean-swept black and white tiles. "Which one do we choose?"

"Sounds kind of like a question on a psych exam," Charlie reasoned.

"More like a math question." Xander scratched his chin. " _If Bleakgrave has three yellow doors and we have six knives and one sword, how many penises can Xander carve before someone inside takes notice_?"

There was a long pause before Anya finally asked, "So what's the answer?"

"Add up the weapons, carry the square footage," Spike mumbled, counting on his fingers as he walked behind the slayer, "multiply by how many bollocks Harris has, amounts to a grand total of sod-all-zero." He shrugged when Xander glared at him. "Bleaks knocked you over with his pointer, mate."

"Hey!" Xander protested, nearly tripping on the laces of his dress shoes, "Doesn't mean I wouldn't do it, you know! We just don't have time."

But before they were close enough to choose a set or carve any genitalia into Bleakgrave's personal property, the doors in the middle swung open as if by themselves. Buffy was the first to enter, cautiously peering inside before stepping foot into the tall foyer. As Spike followed suit, he found the doors were being held ajar by two men decked in full navy colored livery. The tassels on their silver trimmed epaulettes stirred as the men gave a half bow, and the newcomers traipsed towards the sound of the music being played further down the hall.

Willow's eyes went wide at the sight of the heavy crystal chandeliers suspended from the foyer's ceiling and lavish, hand painted walls. Her small fingertips brushed the ornate carved trim of the doorframe as they walked into the next room. "Whoa. Let's do the timewarp again."

"Does he know it's 1999? I feel like I'm an extra on the set of a bodice-ripper," Xander muttered, as they walked past a vampire in a bustled dress that was displaying an ample amount of cleavage.

"He's been away for a while," Charlie replied, "and I don't think he's had time to catch up on home decorating trends. Too busy with the magic shows and, ya know, the slaughtering of the innocents."

"Make no mistake, he'll get what's comin' to him, luv," Spike said, rubbing at his chest. The Hepetalium stone inside of him twisted and stung.

"Says the guy who's going to hell in every religion known to… holy everything that is holy…" Xander trailed off as they peered into the room that Spike knew from the maps was called the Hall of Mirrors.

Spike was also sure that the room he was seeing was impossibly bigger than what the Hall of Mirrors should be. It should've been just a corridor, but the room was as wide as it was long, curved mirrors lining one side and arched windows echoing on the other. The vaulted ceiling stretched to perhaps a dozen stories tall, and where the internet and book articles said there would be panelled paintings of kings and queens and military victories, instead there was just a deep indigo sky. Tea lights hovered in the air below it like twinkling stars.

Gilded sculptures of demons, horned and winged and grotesque, were silhouetted in every window, each holding aloft a candelabra lit with dripping, scarlet candles. But it was the spectacle of partygoers that stole all the attention. Demons and humans alike whirled and surged in time to the music, a dizzying array of shapes and colors. And all wore masks. Some were simple half-masks, some covered entire faces and were human in form. Some were garish, some were gaudy, most were magnificently painted and delightfully carved. In his hundred and forty-six years of existence, Spike had never seen anything like it.

"Hide your face and the world will never find you," Charlie whispered, so softly that Spike almost didn't hear her.

"I wish Halfrek was here," Anya sighed nostalgically, swishing her skirt around. "We used to go to balls and masquerades all the time during the revolution. So much dancing. I once flayed a guy at one of these things."

"Is he in there?" Tara murmured, looking all around the ballroom.

"Oh, no. He didn't make it past round three."

Willow rolled her eyes at the ex demon, " _Bleakgrave_ , Anya. Bleakgrave."

The magician was as easy to spot as a bullseye, in the coat of red velvet that Spike had seen him wearing before, and without a mask to conceal his face. Surrounded by a half dozen other partygoers, he was laughing and talking loudly, with the compact, ever-present Hodges standing at his side. And though Bleakgrave was just one man in a sea of demons, his presence seemed to fill the entire room.

As the Scoobies ogled Bleakgrave, a woman swathed in what must have been a mile of turquoise lace and seed pearls tried to squeeze between the bottleneck that they had formed in the doorway. She made it through, but not before baring her sharp, needle-like teeth and hissing at them.

"And that's our cue," Buffy muttered, clutching the hilt of her sword through her dress.

"Alright, remember, the necklace will glow blue once we're in the clear, so keep an eye on it, and get out as fast as you can if it changes," Willow said quietly, shifting so Charlie could hear her. "And if You-Know-Who leaves this room, you remember what to do, right?"

"Three taps and run for the hills," Charlie recited. "And then we regroup at Giles's."

Willow nodded, her eyes connecting with Spike's in a silent question. _Are you still doing this?_

"Say hiya to Niblet and Joyce," he said, in answer. _Still doing this._

The witch gave them a tight smile. "Good luck guys. See you on the other side."

Spike waited until the slayer and the Scoobies had meandered down the hallway in the direction of the chapel, slipping out of sight after a collection of guests passed them by. He turned to Charlie, noticing that she was absently fisting the plummy satin of her gown with her free hand. She seemed far less at ease than she had on the way over.

"Shall we?" he asked, inclining his head towards the throng of partygoers in the ballroom.

"Ready, steady, go," she replied, in a voice suggesting that the more preferable option would be going back out the way they came.

"It'll be alright, luv, eyes on me. Just play it on the safe side and do like you would at any shindig, yeah?"

"Unless you want me to go hand Bleakgrave five bucks for the booze and tell him I'll kick his ass at beer pong later, don't encourage me to reference any past experiences with parties. I've only been to keggers. Twice, if you want to get specific." Spike imagined that under her mask, one eyebrow was arched sardonically at him.

"How 'bout we save the ass kickin' part for later down the road? When we've dialed him down a few notches and you can beat him into the ground rather than at a drinkin' game."

"Promise?"

"Promise. C'mon," he said, pulling her into the dance hall.

They entered the ballroom at the far left of the room next to the orchestra, the players elevated on an ivory, silk-draped platform. There must have been thirty or forty musicians at least, identical in their white powdered wigs and black domino masks, each performing flawlessly. The conductor in front swung his thin baton with ceaseless energy, and the violinists, the harpists, the flautists, the pianists, all tracked his movements with rapt concentration.

Not wanting to stand near anything that would be attracting an audience, Spike nodded towards a quieter corner that boasted a pair of settees and upholstered chairs. With any luck, the mirrored walls behind the seating area would make it easy to observe Bleakgrave without making it obvious.

The pair began weaving their way around the guests, dodging antlers and hooves and other strange appendages, passing by a few demons that Spike thought he recognized from the bar. He wondered if perhaps he also knew a few humans from the seedier places he'd hung around, but with the masks and the frippery it was impossible to tell.

A pale, hairless monster with antelope-like horns and a full white mask tittered as it passed by. "Did you _see_ the buffet table? I don't know where he got Deathwok meat! Must've cost a fortune."

"Why do you think he's doing this?" Charlie kept her eyes trained on Bleakgrave as they walked the perimeter of the room. Spike watched with exasperation as a crowd of vampires descended on the couches in the mirrored corner. Sighing, he rerouted towards one of the doorways that opened into the foyer, a quick escape at the forefront of his thoughts.

"I mean, I understand that he gets off on the adoration and respect," Charlie continued, leaning against Spike as he halted at the door, "but this seems a bit over the top by anyone's standards."

"Smells an awful lot like an agenda. No such thing as a free meal."

"So what's his angle?"

"Think we're about to find out," Spike said, as the music eased to a full stop, and the mass of people and demons around Bleakgrave cleared off to the side. Alone in the center of the ballroom, the magician took a fluted glass from Hodge's tiny, patient hands and held it aloft, tapping it with a thick ring on one of his fingers. The sharp twinkling sound reverberated around the ballroom and the mob of guests quieted their conversations to hear what the magician had to say.

"My dear friends," he boomed, holding aloft the glass of something fizzy and lime-green, "Eat, drink, dance, and be merry. For we are about to watch the birth of a new era. I have plans for this little town of Sunnydale, so stick with me, and you won't want for anything."

A vampire picking through the buffet table turned to whoop and holler, "Yeah Bleakgrave! You rule!"

"Shut up, Kevin," his companion muttered.

"In one week," Bleakgrave went on, "I plan to unveil something, the likes of which no one has ever seen or attempted. But suffice to say, I'll be needing your assistance. Until then, there will be no harming of the human residents of Sunnydale without my express permission." He held up a hand when a few demons began growling in protest.

"It will be one week… just one… of reprieve. The citizens need to be lulled into a sense of safety, a feeling of security. If it means you need to go elsewhere for your meals or your entertainment, so be it. And though the week to follow will be difficult for all of us, I can assure you that we will reap the benefits a thousandfold when the week is over, when I implement this undertaking of mine. You will never go hungry. You will never be bored. Beside me, we will take over this world piece by piece. But before the self-restraint and our week of forbearance, we have tonight… and tonight, my friends… we celebrate!"

The ballroom erupted into thunderous applause, and Bleakgrave held up his arms and grinned at his villainous audience.

Charlie's lips thinned. "Well that sounds ominous."

"Knew he had somethin' up his sleeve,' Spike said, watching cautiously as Bleakgrave bent down to whisper something to Hodges. The small demon nodded once and began heading in their general direction. "Let's keep movin', pet."

Spike was forced to slow his pace when Charlie tugged at his arm. "Spike, look... is that…"

"Us," he finished, staring at the mirror they were walking by. He let out a snort of amusement, and so did the masked, blue eyed vampire that stared back at him. No wonder all the vamps were crowding around one side of the room. And no wonder Harmony was carrying such a torch for Mr. Hocuspocus.

"Buffy wasn't kidding when she called it glamoflauge. I don't even recognize me," Charlie said, smoothing a hand over her hair and adjusting her mask as they drew past a second mirror. They were both so fascinated by the supernatural oddity of their reflections, that they almost stumbled into the side of the lengthy, feast-laden banquet table.

Spike hazily registered Charlie gasping as his vision traveled over the mounds of roasted meats, avalanches of exotic chocolates, baskets of delicate pastries, pausing eagerly on the three tiered fountain at the center of the table, flowing with what smelled like real human blood. But tempted as he was, Spike would never again fall for the party plasma. The last time he'd washed down freebie virgin blood at a gala, he'd ended up stuffed in a box and three miles down Davy Jones's locker.

"Quite a spread," Spike remarked, looking in vain for something that looked safe enough to ease the scratchiness of his throat or douse the fire in his chest cavity. He aborted his mission and hastily pulled Charlie towards the dance floor when he spied a plate of human fingers between the canapes and platter of roasted spiders.

"Hold up," she said, resisting his insistent pulling. "What are you doing?"

"Fancy a dance, pet?" he asked as the orchestra began a waltz. "Been a long time since I took a lass for a twirl, but I think the name of the game is to blend in."

"I _will_ step all over your feet, Astaire. No crying if I break your toes."

He lifted one of her arms and twirled her around once, dipping her as she came around to face him. "Won't step on my feet, luv. Got enough grace and balance for the both of us."

"Oh, you're that good, huh?" Charlie said, laughing as he righted her again.

"What can I say? I'm quite a catch."

"Sure you are," was all she replied, but she let him lead her to an empty spot on the ballroom floor. Spike scanned the room for Bleakgrave, and was satisfied to find him deep in conversation with a Lilliad demon near the center windows. He placed a hand on Charlie's waist as she rested one on his shoulder, their other hands meeting as they began to step and spin with the other dancers.

One, two, three, one, two, three… he counted off the steps in time with the music, just like when he and his mother use to practice in the living room at home so many decades ago. William Pratt only utilized his long practiced steps waltzing with cousins at parties, and promenading with partnerless old maids at balls. Dru hadn't been one for organized dancing, so Spike had only danced with prey when balls were still in fashion. Never had he danced with someone he'd fallen in love with, magnetic energy drawing him ever closer to her body, closer, closer.

"You are full of surprises," Charlie said. It had taken her a moment to figure out the rhythm, but with Spike leading, her small missteps weren't obvious. "Where did you learn to do this? Or more like _when_ did you learn to do this?"

"London, summer of 1864. Pretty Gertie Watson got an invite to my aunt's summer soiree, and I'd never learnt to dance," he admitted, nimbly hopping over the unruly tail of a nearby dancer. "Prattled on about it from sun up to sun down until my mum gave in and taught me."

"And did you get to tango with pretty Gertie Watson?"

"Her dance card was filled 'fore I worked up the nerve to pop the question."

"Well Gertie missed out. Big time."

The volume of the orchestra tapered off, and the dancing partners around them smiled and clapped, heading off to conversations or the refreshments table. But Spike stayed in place, transfixed by the girl in his arms, her eyes shining like the candles in the shadowed windows. A few dark wisps of her hair drifted slightly out of place.

"Is this the part where you tell me that I'm the most beautiful girl in the room?" she asked with a little smile.

"Sorry to disappoint," he replied, tilting his head and tucking a lock of her hair back where it belonged. "You're the most beautiful girl, period."

Leaning in, she kissed the side of his face, just below the edge of his mask, and moved even closer to nip at his earlobe. "Sweet talker," she whispered in his ear.

He grinned at her. "Saucy minx."

"Punk."

"Hussy."

"Hey!" she protested, giving him a mock frown.

"Love you, you know." The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

Charlie was silent for an eternity, gazing back at him with a look he couldn't decipher. A demon carrying a tray of clear, bubbly drinks elbowed by them. "Well that really wasn't fair, was it?" she finally responded.

He'd been hopeful of course, but he had also been bracing himself for a less than favorable response. At least he had a centuries worth of experience when it came to unrequited love. Didn't mean that the rejection didn't sting though. "Can't bloody well take it back, can I?" he said sourly, stuffing his hands into the pockets on his suit jacket.

"Not that, dummy. You telling me here, where I can't immediately jump your bones."

She wasn't put off by his admission, and he wondered if perhaps given a little more time she'd feel the same way. Relief settled over him like a balm, and his face lit up with a cocky smile. "Not gonna stop the bone jumpin', luv. See the group of Porthlox in blue over there? Copulate in public all the time, they do, nobody bats an eye."

"So do I."

"Oh well, good, 'cause there's a dark corner right over-"

"No! Not the… the copulating!" she said. "I love you. I love you too."

"Charlie…" He breathed in and out a few times, and then every thought in his head vanished as she pressed her lips to his. It was more of a promise than a kiss, a contract signed in blood, a hot wax seal stamped with a ring. It wasn't demanding or tentative. It was knowing and firm and tender, and he felt it from his fingertips to the ends of his toes. _I love you_ , it said.

As the music started up once more, and couples began taking their places around them, Charlie broke away from his mouth. Smiling, she took his hands and stepped backward, colliding with someone behind her. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said, turning her head towards the owner of the foot she'd accidentally stepped on.

The red velvet coat was what shocked Spike into awareness first, followed by the black stare that raked over him. He felt Charlie freeze briefly before she gripped his hand tightly and fully turned to face Bleakgrave.

"Do I know you?" Bleakgrave asked, squinting at her. "I don't recall inviting you, but you look so familiar." The magician's eyes briefly flickered down to the enchanted pendant that rested against Charlie's chest.

"I… um… Harmony invited us…"

Spike squeezed her hand and had just begun formulating an a simultaneous reply and exit strategy when Bleakgrave let out a thunderous laugh. "Of course, I'm just teasing. I couldn't pick my own mother out of this crowd. But I've seen five exact copies of the mask you're wearing, sweetheart, and it's starting to get tedious. A friend of Harmony's is a friend of mine. Mind if I…"

Bleakgrave waved his hand and suddenly Charlie was wearing a fine net of crystals over her gown and in her hair. The gems winked and twinkled in the candlelight, and her mask, previously made of wires and paper and silver paint was now solid metal. It looked an awful lot like real silver, twisting into sweeping, crescent shapes, and sitting heavily on her brow.

When a few ladies nearby sniffed in jealousy and began whispering to each other, Bleakgrave chuckled. "Stars around the beautiful moon hide their own bright faces when she shines and lights the earth with her silver."

"Sappho," Spike murmured, his throat closing in on itself. The realization burned into him like a wooden cross against his skin. Slow and terrible. _And you'll dance with the moon, my William, and she'll steal you away._ Dru hadn't been talking about the moon when she'd raved about secrets and starlight. Dru had meant Charlie.

"Ah, your boyfriend knows his poetry, good lad," the magician said, clapping Spike on the arm. "Go ahead, lovelies, dance the night away. I'm off to find my sweet little Harmony."

 _She'll fill you up with moonbeams and whisper her secrets in your ear. She'll love you better than all the rest._

"When we get back to the crypt, we're having a bonfire and everything I'm wearing is going to turn into a sooty lump of silver. This is making my skin crawl," Charlie said quietly as Bleakgrave walked away.

 _You'll speak of misdeeds and she'll take her favor back. Back, back, back, and then you can be mine once more._

"Spike?...What's wrong?" Charlie was peering at him concernedly.

She couldn't find out. It was that simple. She could never know that he'd dined on Kalderash and wiped his hands clean on their caravan tapestries. He'd held on to the hope that Charlie would forgive him when he unburdened himself, but Dru's visions, when understood, had never been wrong.

"Ground control to Spike?"

He blinked at her. "Sorry pet, just feelin' a bit peaked is all."

She didn't seem to buy his excuse. "Is everything okay? Because I'm getting this weird feeling that I get when something weird is going on. What was Willow do-"

"Blue," Spike interrupted.

"What?"

"Your trinket, it's lightin' up like a bloody christmas bulb," he repeated, watching the gem light up again. "Time to go all Happy Trails, Charlie Girl."

"Spike," she whispered, suddenly wrapping her fingers around her necklace. It was so bright that he could see it shining cobalt through the back of her hand. Her eyes were fixed on a spot behind him, and he twisted around to see what had her so spooked.

At the other end of the ballroom, a pair of palace guards had their hands clamped tightly around the upper arms of a bloodied, disheveled looking Willow. Bleakgrave stood in front of the unmasked witch as she struggled and seethed against her captors, her twin crystal pendant pressed between the magician's thumb and forefinger. But Bleakgrave wasn't looking at Red. He was looking at Charlie.

The melody from the orchestra ground to a cacophonous halt, and every inhabitant in the room turned to see what had captured Bleakgrave's attention. Somewhere close by, Spike vaguely heard the sound of a glass shattering, and then the ballroom exploded into chaos.

Spike shifted into game face and shoved Charlie towards the nearest exit, snarling when she skidded to a halt and glanced back at him. "Run!" he roared, "Run!"

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for all the encouragement, follows, and favs! You make my heart sing and my fingers tap the keyboard a little faster._

 _And oh, you guys, you might think you know what's going to happen but I don't think you do. The real fun is coming... (insert evil author smile here)_

 _Put somethin' nice in the box down below and I'll give you a cookie._


	34. Chapter 34- Hell and High Water

Spike's eyes flicked towards the maelstrom in the center of the ballroom, and he couldn't help but to have admiration for Red. She packed quite a punch for someone being physically restrained. With her obsidian-black eyes and enraged expression, Spike was certain the witch could take all the credit for the shards of mirror glass that were flying around the room like disturbed wasps, and the buffet table that was currently _en fuego_.

Demons were screaming like emergency sirens, a host of masked guests were sprinting away from the scene as fast as they could, and one imbecilic human had pulled up a chair and was watching the turmoil while munching hors d'oeuvres as though he were at the cinema.

Charlie, on the other hand, hadn't moved.

"Run!" Spike snarled again, heart sinking when Charlie didn't head towards the door, but started rushing back to him, resolve and petulance set like stone on her face.

"Bloody fuckin' hell," he muttered. He briefly wondered if he should have filled her in on the plan after all. Probably wouldn't have made an ounce of difference.

A sudden burst of concrete-stiffness in his limbs shook him out of his thoughts, and he was startled to feel it dissipate as quickly as it had appeared. Spike flashed his sights back at Bleakgrave. Outstretched hand, check. Look of annoyance, check. Bleaks was definitely throwing some mojo of the immobilizing sort in his direction, counteracted by something Willow was chanting at the magician. Spike didn't waste any time.

Intercepting Charlie as she ran towards him, he grabbed her by the forearm, and hauled her towards the doors they had come in through. "Thought I said _run_ , but you seem to be hard of hearin', pet," he growled, shoving a wayward Sloth demon out of their way.

Irritation sparked in Charlie's eyes from behind her silver mask. "I heard you just fine."

"That so?" he asked, glaring back at her.

"I did run. Apparently it wasn't in the direction _you_ were hoping for."

If she hadn't already been dead, Spike decided, he might have killed her.

They cut a swath across the ballroom floor, a simple task since most of the guests were headed in the same direction as well. It was similar to running with sewer rats as they fled en masse from a flooding tunnel, which Spike knew from a hundred years of below-ground travel, didn't typically end well for anyone.

As they tore through the hall and into the foyer, Spike faltered briefly at the sight of the congestion at the doorway to the courtyard. The crush of people and demons was at least a dozen heads deep, but Spike knew he didn't have the luxury of time to find a new exit. He began bulldozing through the crowd that was blocking the doors as quickly as he could.

And then the mob in front of them parted like biblical waves, and Bleakgrave was standing at the wall of yellow doors with a frosty, knowing smile lighting up his face. Charlie shrieked and Spike swore as a surge as forceful as a gale wind hit them square in the chest, slamming them violently against the blood-red wallpaper of the wall behind them. Shooting pain radiated up Spike's spine as the room's gilded chair rail dug into his lower back, and when he turned his head to check on Charlie, he noticed that his hand was still wrapped around her arm but he couldn't move it. She seemed to be in a similar predicament.

Bleakgrave strolled forward, and with one graceful flick of his fingers, Charlie and Spike's masks disintegrated, black and silver dust landing in velvet clouds around their shoulders. The residual partygoers shuffled around the edges of the foyer, looking both excited and uncertain as to whether Bleakgrave was putting on a performance or staging an execution.

"Charlotte and her pet vampire," Bleakgrave jeered. "Or is the vampire and his pet Charlotte? You know what, I _don't_ think either of your names were on the guest list."

"Oh, weren't they?" Spike replied innocently. "Well, just loosen that grip, Gatsby, and we'll be on our way."

"Now, now. You've made such an effort to get here, the least I can do is be hospitable. Why don't you stay awhil..." the magician trailed off as a blonde vampire draped in more crystals than an entourage of Las Vegas dancers pushed her way into the center of the throng. Harmony barely registered the fact that anyone was being pinned to the wall, much less someone she knew. Spike was suddenly very glad he'd allowed his bleached hair to be covered up.

"Harmony…" Bleakgrave growled in annoyance as the vampire threw her arms around him.

"I'm ready for my grand entrance now, Natey," Harmony said, peppering the magician's face with kisses. "How do I look?" She spun around once, and Spike felt like he was having a seizure watching the damned dress sparkle.

"Like the queen's crown jewels. I'm a trifle busy at the moment, my dear. Why don't you go wait in your suite?"

"But the party…" Harmony whined, and began listing off all the things she'd planned on doing when she arrived.

As the argument unfolded in front of him, Spike strained forward, testing Bleakgrave's hold. His back didn't hurt so much, and he didn't think the feeling of lessened force was just his imagination.

" _But the party,"_ Bleakgrave said, successfully mimicking Harmony's grating voice, "Is currently being overrun by savages. Now, please go to your rooms until I've had time to deal with them. Don't make me ask you again."

"But _Natey Poo_ …"

Spike tried moving his limbs again. This time, he was able to lift one of his previously immobile fingers. Charlie felt his movement against her arm and glanced at him. He made a show of watching Bleakgrave and Harmony and then glimpsed back down at his hand, gladdened when a look of understanding passed over her face. A distracted Bleakgrave was a weaker Bleakgrave. She nodded imperceptibly, and began struggling against force that held them.

The magician didn't seem to notice or care that Charlie was putting up a fight, and continued his exchange with his vampire girlfriend. "I'll throw another party, and you can wear your dress then, my dear. Now, go. To. Your. Rooms," he demanded.

Harmony's mouth drooped into a pout, but she made no verbal protest as she turned and stalked off down the hallway, her high heels tapping a fast, angry beat. As Bleakgrave returned his attention to Spike and Charlie, the constricting feeling of magical bindings around them returned with a vengeance.

With a frustrated mutter under her breath, Charlie gritted her teeth and groaned against the invisible restraints, and Spike felt an electric prickling sensation where his fingers were connected with her skin. The magician must have felt some change in the air current or sensed the magic, because he drew a step closer and looked at Charlie with raw interest.

"Curiouser and curiouser. But don't you know, little girl, that I've had over a hundred years to master every magical force there is? Whatever infinitesimal amount of power you have, it's no match for mine."

Charlie was quiet for a moment, her features becoming collected and almost tranquil before she spoke. "That might be true, you egotistical, homicidal fossil, but there's one very important type of force that you've obviously forgotten about."

"Do enlighten me," Bleakgrave challenged, crossing his arms against his chest.

The vampire shut her eyes and with the faintest whisper passing from her lips, the chain on the heavy crystal chandelier above Bleakgrave's head squealed and snapped in half. The whole fixture began to come whistling down from the ceiling as Charlie's eyes flashed open again. "Gravity."

The magician managed to avoid most of falling chandelier, dodging to the side at the last crucial moment, but not before his hold on Spike and Charlie dropped. Spike's body was already wound as tightly as a loaded spring, and he latched his hand around Charlie's wrist and shot forward the second they were released.

With the threat of Bleakgrave spurring him onward, Spike pushed through the crowd and ran towards the ballroom at a dead sprint, with Charlie one pace behind him. They burst through the doorway into a thick cloud of smoke, courtesy of the buffet table which was still a smoldering wreck. It was clear that Bleakgrave's wait staff or servants had attempted to put out the fire without much success. Shattered mirror glass covered the floor like used confetti, but Red was still holding her own, casting bolts of hissing energy any time one of Bleakgrave's palace guards came near her.

"There's no way out, other than the way you came in," Willow yelled over the pandemonium when she saw them enter the room.

"Not really an option, luv!" Spike called back, jabbing his elbow into the face of a vampire sentry that had gotten too close for comfort. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie raise her hands, and Spike turned his head just in time to watch the floral couch in the corner of the ballroom go sailing into one of the floor to ceiling windows.

He raised an eyebrow at her as glass rained down from above.

Charlie gave a careless lift of her shoulders. "In case of emergency, break glass," she explained, and began dodging guards and partygoers to get to the demolished opening.

Spike just shook his head and darted after her.

As he kicked out the remaining jagged plates of window glass, he realized that Willow had suddenly appeared beside them. She looked calm and deadly, so unlike the sweet, quirky Scooby that he was used to.

"We're about to have another problem," the witch said.

Spike followed her eyes to the open doorway at the far end of the room, and saw nothing besides a handful of guards who looked unsure as to whether they should attack or not. He was about to ask what she meant, when he heard it … high pitched howling, intermixed with eerie, bubbling laughter.

And then one howl became a duet of howls, and the duet became at least a quartet, which was followed by the distinct tapping of claws on marble floors from far down the hallway.

"Flesh hounds," Spike muttered. "Up and over quick, Charlie Girl," he said giving the vampire a hand over the edge of the window. He was about to repeat his actions with Willow, but one look at her cold face, and he decided he'd be better off sticking his hand in holy water. With an uttered word, she floated over the threshold and landed gracefully on the other side before turning to face him again.

"What are flesh hounds?" The witch asked, looking back inside.

"They're a group a' middle aged bints that take a bus to Vegas every once and again for a bender and an all-male revue," he said, retroactively considering the intelligence of mocking a person who could probably light him on fire by blinking at him. He carefully placed his foot on a glassless part of the the window sill, grabbing Charlie's outstretched hand and hopping onto the grass below. "The name's all the lowdown you need."

"Hounds that eat flesh?" Charlie asked, tossing off her high heel shoes so she was barefoot in the grass. She winced regretfully and tore a long slit up the thigh of her aunt's dress.

"Hounds that eat flesh," Spike agreed. He squinted into the darkness in front of them. A long, shallow stairway led down to a maze of towering, impeccably pruned hedges. Not ideal, but better than the alternative round two in Bleakgrave's funhouse. The hounds began howling again, and with a nod at his companions, Spike began to sprint for the cover of the hedges. He took the steps on the stairway two at a time, missing the heavy, familiar comfort of his combat boots as his unsubstantial dress shoes hit the stones.

"But they don't eat dead flesh, right?" Charlie continued, as she and Red raced to keep up behind him. "So we'll just keep them away from Willow."

"Oh, they're not dainty, luv. Saw 'em shuck the bark right off a mummy once. So long as they're well fed, they'll track down whatever their master tells them to, rip 'em to bloody Kibbles n' Bits." Spike reached the bottom of the stairs and barely paused before he instinctively decided to take a sharp right, hurdling into the evergreen-scented pathway between the first row of bushes. He felt less exposed with cover on both sides, even if it was only foliage.

"How about the better question… how do we kill… " Willow's voice fell silent behind him, and it was then that Spike became aware of the dark shape that had loomed up a few dozen yards ahead them. He skidded to a halt.

His throat went dry as the dark shape became five separate masses of dappled brown and gold fur. The pack of flesh hounds stepped unhurriedly into a moonlit patch of grass, sniffing the air and making that awful chuckling sound that reminded Spike a little too much of parties during his human life. With their too-long legs and lean, muscular frames, they were every bit as fearsome as he remembered them to be.

"They look like hyenas…" Charlie whispered beside him. "But huge." If only they _were_ hyenas. They could even be rabid, undead, baby-snatching hyenas and they'd still have a better chance of escaping them.

"Kill. How?" Willow asked sharply.

"Don't suppose you've got any sacred sand on you?" Spike asked, already fairly certain he knew the answer. As predicted, Willow shook her head. "Distraction might work, but if there's any other tricks up that sleeve of yours, Red, it'd be preferable to give them a go 'fore we look like the rubbish bin after All-You-Can-Eat Ribs Night at the Bronze."

"If we get further away from the palace, I could apparate us out. I tried it earlier, but Bleakgrave's got something blocking it."

"We're not gonna make it past the juniper bushes the next path over. What else? Charlie?" Spike asked.

The vampire licked her lips and continued to gape at the hounds. "The couch was my grand finale. I'm tapped out."

Spike could hear the beasts' stomachs gurgling with anticipation, and he began walking backwards, one slow, careful step after another. If Red couldn't snuff them out, it was going to take one hell of a diversion to outrun them. As if hearing Spike's thoughts, the largest, closest hound began to grin at him as it warily stalked two steps closer, than another three. The rest of the pack followed suit.

"Or, we pull out the big guns." The witch scowled at the approaching monstrosities. "Thicken," she hissed, making a quick motion with her palms facing skywards. Nothing seemed to happen, which was why Spike was rather perplexed when she turned and said, "let's go," before starting to jog back in the direction of the stairway. It wasn't a leisurely pace by any means, but she didn't seem to be running for her life either.

And as Willow started moving, the hounds snarled and leapt into action, galloping towards them at full tilt.

"For fuck's sake, Red," Spike cursed, and began fleeing for his unlife, taking care to make sure that Charlie stayed ahead of him. He thought he heard a peculiar succession of thudding sounds, and he looked back as the hounds, one by one, ran head first into an unseen, vibrating wall. He stopped and turned back to stare at it, dumbfounded as slobber from the hounds' open mouths dribbled down the side of the barrier. The pack began baying in displeasure and scratching at the wall, but it held fast.

"Don't recall that little bit of hocus pocus bein' in the Scooby arsenal," Spike remarked as Willow paused to wait for him.

"It's nothing," the witch said brusquely. She looked drained, and Spike noticed that her eyes were back to their normal hazel color. "Just something I picked up for… just in case."

Spike saw right through her evasive comment and grinned at her. " _Somebody's_ been doing a little recreational readin' in the hands-off section of Ex-Watcher Central."

"Hey! Do you want to get eaten or do you want to stop being all acusey and get out of here?" Willow asked. "We've got twenty minutes, tops, before that wall comes down, unless Bleakgrave gets to them first. I want to be as far away from here as possible when that happens."

Charlie raised her hand. "I want to get out of here."

" _Observation_ , not accusation," Spike clarified, "and yeah, let's run along before Shenzi, Banzai, and Ed suss out how to _unthicken_."

The three of them took the leftmost hedge pathway off the side of the stairs, aiming more for stealth than speed. Bleakgrave's grounds were immense, but Willow had memorized most of the layout of Versailles, and the outside didn't deviate much from the original.

They quickly found a stretch of manicured grass that after a quarter mile of so, lead to the edge of the woods. The tension in Spike's shoulders eased a bit, and he realized that he'd been so tense that he'd all but forgotten about the discomfort in his chest. Now, however, it was beginning to sting again.

Spike paused at the boundary to the woods, where the deep green grass yielded to undergrowth and dead leaves, and asked the question he'd been hesitant to know the answer to. "Joyce? Niblet?"

Willow stopped and nodded. "Got 'em out. Barely."

"Good," he said, relieved to know that even if his plan failed, there was something positive that had come out of it. There was an awkward hesitation, and Willow seemed to sense what was about to occur. She stepped closer to the woods and busied herself studying some of the wildflowers that were growing at the edge.

Spike ran a shaky hand through his stiff hair, and with a deep breath, he turned to Charlie. In the pitch-black shadows, his desperate lips found hers, soft, cool, and willing.

"This is my stop, pet," he murmured against the side of her mouth. He wanted so much more... more minutes, more tenderness, something that he could keep as close as a worn photo in a soldier's pocket in case things went south, but all he had was the taste of her lips on his tongue.

Charlie pulled her head back slowly, uncomprehending as she frowned at him. "What?"

He met her eyes, but not without difficulty. "Time for you to go. Got somethin' I need to do."

"The hell you do," she said, her fingers pressing into his biceps. Her voice took on a distressed edge, "We got Joyce and Dawn back, so we're done. _That_ was the plan, wasn't it?"

The _real_ plan had included a much less obvious way for Spike to head to back to the palace, because everyone knew that Charlie wouldn't want to leave his side. But that, of course, was ruined the second the magician became aware of his uninvited guests and created the need for them to escape out the back. In plan A, Charlie would've been safe at Giles' apartment by now.

Spike ran his fingers lightly over her cheek and tried to smile. "Bleaks isn't gonna roll over and take it, you know that, luv. Red?"

Willow stood up from the carpet of wildflowers and drew forward to put a gentle hand on Charlie's shoulder, coaxing her to move away.

"What- no!" With a glare, Charlie shrugged off the witch's touch. "Spike, whatever you're planning, I'm going with you! I don't know what you think you're doing, but-"

"-trust me. Gotta plan, gonna see it though, and when it's done I'll find you. Love you. Red?"

Charlie's fingertips dug further into his jacket sleeves. "No, not without me, I won't-"

"-Red!" Spike insisted.

"Charlie, come on, we have to go…" The witch put her hands on Charlie again, and the vampire bristled at the contact, taking a defensive step backward and directing her fiery gaze at Willow.

"I'm not leaving!" Charlie insisted, "Spike? Don't you dare!"

The line of Willow's mouth thinned, and she looked at Spike apologetically as her left hand touched lightly down on Charlie's bare arm for a third time. "Domum," the witch whispered, and the two women were gone in a quick pulse of light.

Spike stared at the empty spot for a few seconds, a ragged breath passing his lips before he steeled himself and turned back towards the palace. It was time.

* * *

If he hadn't known better, Spike would have thought that Bleakgrave was waiting for him. The magician was alone at the edge of the gardens, rubbing his thumb against his chin as he leaned against giant stone urn at the top of the stairs. As Spike approached, the magician's eyes caught hold of the movement and his placid demeanor changed to one of wary triumph.

"You," Bleakgrave said accusingly, straightening his stance. "For a moment, I thought perhaps I'd underestimated your ludicrous band of party crashers, but _you_ seem to be lacking in the intelligence department." The man flashed a sharp smile at him. "Did you forget your coat?"

"Consider the white flag wavin', Badshave. Wanna have a talk."

"A talk?" The magician scoffed. "How about I just dust you and save myself the trouble?"

Spike shrugged his shoulders and drew a touch closer, stopping on the final stair so he was the same height as the man. "You could, but it'd be a real waste, don't you think? No nasty bit of sorcery to inflict, no juicy soul to steal," he said, raising a hand to circle his chest. Bleakgrave's eyes followed the path greedily. "You'd always wonder what I came here to say, wouldn't you?"

Bleakgrave began inspecting his nails as though he couldn't have cared less, but the hand at his side was tightly clenched, and Spike wasn't fooled for an instant. The magician was interested. "Perhaps I would wonder," the man finally said, "Though I was informed shortly before you came back that two recent acquisitions of mine went missing from my home. I'd much rather you tell me where _they_ are."

"Let's see, missin' acquisitions…" Spike scratched his head and pretended to think. "Did you try the Lost and Found? Believe it's visitor entrance B, if the tourist brochure can be believed."

"Your humor doesn't amuse," Bleakgrave snapped, "and I'm growing weary of these games. Say what you came to say, vampire, or prepare for your end."

Spike took a deep breath and met Bleakgrave's gaze unwaveringly. "Gonna offer a trade of sorts. My soul for the two we knicked."

"One soul for two? Not a very tempting offer, especially considering that you and your group of miscreants wrecked my ballroom. How about I take your soul, and then go after the rest of your tribe?"

Spike tisked. "Said it yourself, you underestimated us. We already took the slayer's nearest and dearest back, so you're not in the position to negotiate, are you, Bigwave? Comes with a nice little promise though, to sweeten the pot."

Bleakgrave raised his eyebrows and motioned curtly for Spike to continue.

"A truce," Spike informed him. "Slayer and her slayerettes will keep out of your biz from here on out, so long as you leave them and theirs alone. You can go on terrorizin' the locals and pullin' overlong scarves outta your pocket, and they can rest easy knowin' you won't touch a hair on their heads."

It was a complete, utter lie. Buffy had already said that she wouldn't hesitate to put the magician sixty feet under at the first available opportunity, but that was the whole point of the operation. Weaken Bleakgrave with the Hepetalium stone and strike while the source of his power was off-line. Spike waited anxiously as the man digested the terms.

He was startled when the magician abruptly began laughing. "Oh, you've got some balls, I'll give you that. Answer me one question though. Why? I've heard the whispers of how settled you were in Los Angeles, with the crime solving and the life of penance. You seem to be rather… close… with Charlotte. Why sacrifice yourself?"

"Don't need a soul to keep existing, do I?" Spike said with a shrug. "Gotta hunch that whatever you do to me won't tickle, but won't dust me either. You get what you want, they stay safe. It's a win-win, far as everyone's concerned."

Bleakgrave was quiet as he thought it over. It felt like it was taking too long, and Spike was just beginning to worry that the magician could see right through the charade when the man gave a firm nod of his head. "Alright," Bleakgrave said, gesturing towards the palace. Spike wasn't sure if he was more surprised or glad that the magician had fallen for it, but the reality of the pain he was about to receive began to set in. The magician made a noise of impatience. "Let's go, time's a' wasting!"

Spike began walking in the direction the magician had indicated, and tried to pay close attention to his surroundings. Red had been satisfied with the placement of the Hepetalium stone, and had assured him that the likelihood of dusting was minimal. There was a small chance that Bleakgrave would let him go if he survived the "soul" harvesting, but he mostly doubted it. The best chance was for the Scoobies to get him after day three, but he had boatloads of skepticism on whether they actually _would_ , so he mentally recorded where every unmarked door to the outside was.

Unspeaking, they followed the perimeter of the palace for a while, as Spike tried to figure out which rooms they were passing. Eventually, Bleakgrave pulled in front of him, barely stopping to throw open a door disguised as a solid wall. If Spike's calculations were correct, it opened very close to where the chapel was. The thought made the pit of his stomach feel like a lead weight.

They stepped into a long corridor, and Spike admired the evidence of what must have been an epic fight with the slayer. Wall sconces were shattered, there were sword-length gouges in the walls and ceiling, and drapery was hanging in tatters. He wondered who or what she'd fought. He wished he'd gotten to see it.

As Bleakgrave escorted him down the hall, Spike noticed that the damage began to repair itself in the magician's wake. Glass levitated and sealed itself back together like haunted puzzle pieces, the stuffing from a damaged chair seemed to get sucked right back into the cushion. Spike tried not to act impressed as an ornate table that had been reduced to splinters was suddenly in mint condition again. The magician hadn't even bothered to lift a finger.

"Damned kids have no respect for fine furnishings," Bleakgrave sighed, "They don't make home decor like this any more, do they?"

The magician stopped at an entranceway that had been smashed almost beyond recognition. Huge chunks of iron strewn about the floor liquified into a mercury-like substance, flowing up and around the doorframe until a solid sheet covered the entrance once more. As the magician held out his hand, a knob formed, and he opened the door and ushered Spike inside.

They were in the chapel.

The door shut on its own, and Spike heard the audible click of a lock turning.

"Imagine no one would take offense if you happened to hop a train back to the French Revolution," Spike replied, as he looked around at the gargantuan room. It was beautiful, for sure, with its seemingly infinite white arches and the golden altar at the head of the expansive space. The decorative crosses on each pillar sent an icy shiver down his spine.

"Ah, well, cultural tastes aside, I really like this new world," the man said, putting a hand on Spike's shoulder and nudging him forward. "There's been so many fantastic inventions since I was imprisoned. Boxes that heat food. Paper handkerchiefs. Oh, and that thing you call television is wonderful. I've been watching many images in my spare time to learn about the modern culture."

As they passed by archway after archway, Bleakgrave leaned in close to conspiratorially whisper, "I have all intentions of meeting Dan Rather, the news anchor, and Dana Scully, the FBI agent sometime soon."

The scent of hot ashes leaking from the magician's mouth was overwhelming. "Might wanna introduce yourself to Mentos, the Freshmaker while you're at it," Spike suggested.

"Is he important?"

Spike gave the magician a meaningful glance. "At the moment? Very."

Bleakgrave grinned. "Then I'll add him to my list."

They'd made it to the far end of the chapel, just below the gilded altar, when Bleakgrave came to a halt in front of three chairs with manacles incorporated into their arms. One of the seats was upturned, and the arms of two of the chairs had been mutilated with a sharp object, presumably by one of the Scoobies. Spike looked around for evidence of soul harvesting... dust, blood, magical artifacts, anything to indicate what Bleakgrave had in store for him, but the area was clean swept of death. The magician noticed his inspection.

"Oh, no. This area doesn't seem all that secure anymore. You and I are going somewhere… more secluded. Just in case there's a piece of your offer that involves another rescue mission."

The man stopped in front of a life-size marble angel statue that had been caught in a moment of quiet, albeit windy, reflection. Bleakgrave poked it in the eyes, Stooges style. The sound of scraping stone echoed in the hall, and a small section of the marble floor yawned open, revealing a staircase.

Bleakgrave hummed contentedly, and pointed his finger downwards towards the hell that awaited Spike. "After you," the magician said.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello, my little minions! You didn't think I abandoned you, right? Just when we're getting to the action? I've been driving and flying all over and there's a bajillion work and life things that need taking care of, but Spike was starting to get really pissed that I left him in the middle of a flaming ballroom. He's even more pissed that I just left him in a chapel with Bleakgrave though, but it serves him right for getting snarky. Also, there's new favorites (hello, friends!) and follows (howdy, guys!), RKF got a cookie, and to the guest that left a heart-melting review a few days ago, thank you. You made my month._

 _It's gonna be a bit of a slow road, but I promise to finish this. xoxo_


	35. Chapter 35- Fine Print

_A/N: Sooo this got so long that I was gonna split it into two chapters, but then I though, nahh. It's Friday and it's been like a whole month since I've updated so you can have the entire thing. A word of warning though, the second divided section of this chapter gets pretty dark, so if you're super sensitive to violence you might want to skip it. Otherwise, buckle your seatbelts and hang on to your hats, my lovlies._

 _Previously: Bleakgrave's masquerade is a disaster, but Dawn and Joyce are rescued. Willow apparates herself and Charlie out of Versailles, and Spike turns himself in to Bleakgrave as part of the terms of a (fictitious) truce. Since Bleakgrave is under the impression that Spike has a soul, there's a stone disguised as one in Spike's chest. When taken, the stone will destroy the box that Bleakgrave uses to store the souls, thus depleting his power. At least, that's what the plan is..._

* * *

The stairs from the chapel spiraled down in a tight, dizzying corkscrew, and the air became cooler and damper the further Spike and Bleakgrave descended. To the casual observer, Spike might have seemed careless, perhaps even bored, trotting downward in an easy manner towards certain misery. But in reality he was anything but relaxed.

He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled in a steady tempo that usually calmed him, but it only served to further his awareness of the change in the atmosphere. His mind was reeling with so much speculation as to what kind of dungeon awaited him at the bottom, that he didn't realize that they'd arrived until his foot alighted on the landing. Spike slowed his gait to a stop, both surprised and puzzled by what lay before him.

The small room was as tidy and austere as a monk's study, with one single chair that matched the ones in the chapel situated in the center of the rough stone floor. He got a whiff of a strange, oaky scent, as though it had once been used to store ancient casks of liquor, layered with the ever-present, sickening smell of leftover ashes. A wooden shelf lined with a small assortment of powder-filled glass bottles dissected one wall, the containers twinkling in the buttery light of the sconces that adorned the wall opposite.

"You thought it'd look more sinister," Bleakgrave asserted, a statement, not a question, as though he was listening to a broadcasted transmission of Spike's brain.

"Thought there'd be more nasty stuff," Spike admitted, walking over to inspect one of the vials that dotted the top of the short wooden ledge. "You know- slime, snails, and puppydog tails or what-have-you."

Bleakgrave plucked the bottle out of Spike's hand and replaced it on the shelf. "My main stores are elsewhere, and this spell in particular doesn't require many ingredients right away. You can be seated now."

Spike took his time making his way over to the chair, choosing to give it a thorough eyeballing before he gave up his freedom entirely. It wasn't like the rest of Bleakgrave's overly-embellished furniture, designed for impressing guests and boasting to rivals. The seat intended for Spike, and thus any of Bleakgrave's victims, was made of steel and was plain in design, favoring strength over artistry. In other words, it wouldn't burst into flames if the occupant did. Spike drummed his fingers against the rigid, metallic arms.

"Is there a problem?" Bleakgrave asked, his tone slithering towards annoyance.

There was a problem. One that Spike hadn't been able to stop thinking about since he came up with the hairbrained stone-in-the-chest plan in the first place.

Hypothetically, Spike would be fine undergoing the spell. Well, not _fine_ per say, but he was fairly sure he'd survive having a glamoured rock explode out of him like something from a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. And once the soul box was destroyed and Bleakgrave was weakened, Buffy would make sure the magician came to a bad end, and then it would be Shirley Temples and rainbows all around for the Scooby crew.

But where did that leave Spike? With Bleakgrave gone, the Slayer would undoubtedly make good on her promise to give Charlie the primer on one William the Bloody, consumer of gypsy relatives. And just like every other woman he'd loved, Charlie would cast him off. And _that_ just wasn't going to work for him.

Spike rested his elbows against the top of the chair, and gave Bleakgave the friendliest smile he could muster without overdoing it. "Seen a great deal in our hundred and some-odd years of existence, haven't we? Epic world warfare, shiny new gadgets and gizmos, our mates and kindred livin' and dyin'... livin' again..." Spike fished for a few other existential changes and fell short. "Novelty ice cream served on a stick..."

"I suppose we have," Bleakgrave agreed, a thoughtful frown stretching his lips. "What's your point?"

"Have a boon to ask of you, Bleaks, fellow centenarian to centenarian. Consider it a dead man's last request of sorts, in case I end up in the big dustpan in the sky."

"You're really testing my patience, vam… what _is_ your name, anyway?"

"Angel," Spike blurted out, in case the magician had heard the older vampire's name somewhere. He added a bit of a brooding stare, just for authenticity.

"Alright, _Angel_. I'll hear you out, but make it quick."

It was a poisonous idea. Selfish, imprudent, and slightly insane. It had started out as an idle thought as the plan with the stone had evolved. Spike had pushed it aside at first, but the more he'd considered it, the more he'd realized that there was no better solution to his problem. No one would know, Charlie wouldn't be heartbroken. Red might've been able to do the spell he had in mind, but he doubted she would, what with her pesky morals and all. Bleakgrave, on the other hand, was exactly the kind of corrupted virtuoso he needed.

And, Spike reasoned, using a bad man to accomplish a slightly bad goal was a double negative that mostly cancelled itself out, as far as intentions went. There was no reason to overthink it.

"Have a bit of a sordid past, see, and don't want my girl findin' out, thinkin' that I wasn't who she thought I was," Spike told him. "Wanna get a triflin' little part I played with some gypsies scratched out of the history books, outta the heads of anyone who knows or remembers."

Bleakgrave let out a roar of laughter that echoed like there were ten amused magicians in the almost empty room. "This is what I love about you hero types. All noble and self-sacrificing on the exterior, but reality is a whole other story, isn't it? Well, at least you and I can relate," the man said, wiping a tear of mirth from one of his eyes.

"You can do it, yeah? Code of honor among a coupla' nineteenth century gentlemen?"

"Of course I can. And you know what, you might have turned my party into a disaster, but hell, it was quite a show, wasn't it? I don't think it'll be forgotten any time soon. Oh, and did you try the canapes? Delicious. I'm feeling benevolent. So yes, I think I can grant your last request. Sit in the chair."

Feeling more confident about his decision, Spike obeyed Bleakgrave's demand. The freezing temperature of the metal seat bled through the cloth of his pants to the back of his legs, and he settled his hands carelessly on top of the arms of the chair.

"So, how exactly do we get on with this?" Spike asked. "I roll back the brain footage, and you use a mystical phial of Wite-Out?" It occurred to him that he hadn't considered the means of his request, and he began to wonder if he'd unwittingly invited Bleakgrave to read all the spoilers before _The Slayer Strikes Back_ came out.

His musings gave way to concern when the heavy manacles that had been dangling off the arms and legs of the chair flipped up and locked into place. He fidgeted against them, taking care not to alert Bleakgrave to his actions, and found them both solid and tight. There'd be no slipping his hands or feet out.

"I won't have access to your memories. It's a somewhat intricate spell," Bleakgrave explained, pulling two bottles of powder from the shelf. Uncorking them, he meandered back to Spike and spilled their ebony and crimson contents in front of the chair in a complex pattern of triangles and swirls. "I just need verbal consent."

"That's it? An oral _permission slip,_ and you can weed out the rotten bits in anyone's bowl of cherries?"

"That's putting it simply, but yes. And of course, I need the date of the time period that should be... expunged."

Something was making Spike uneasy, but he chalked it up to the notion that he was bolted to Bleakgrave's furniture and about to depart for a three day weekend of torment and misery. "October of 1898. Romania, if you want specifics."

There was an unsettling edge to Bleakgrave's smile as he walked over and placed his warm fingertips on Spike's temples. " _Memoria deleri, historia deleantur._ _Curandus_ , do you give me permission to alter perceptions and recollections of your history?"

"You're not gonna swap it out for somethin' worse, are you?" Spike asked, suspicious that Bleakgrave wasn't being completely sincere. "Wouldn't be right if Charlie thought I violated all her great-great-whoevers 'fore it was meal time, or took a few kiddie snacks for the road. Was a bloodbath, but it was over quick."

"Not to worry, vampire. I'll make sure that Charlotte won't ever hold that part of your past against you," the magician promised silkily, his fingers pressing more firmly into the sides of Spike's head.

"Right then. 'Spose you have my permission."

The lights in sconces briefly flickered the way dying bulbs do, and Bleakgrave began whispering a series of unfamiliar verses aloud. The magician's silvery words seemed to fly and twirl around Spike as if they had come to life, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. And then Spike's vision tuned out as though he were an outdated TV set, fading to black like Giles pulling the plug halfway through an episode of Passions.

* * *

Spike's arms hurt.

His back hurt.

His sodding brain hurt.

There was a maddening itch on the second to last toe of his left foot, but he couldn't move his hands or his feet to take care of it.

Everything felt… well, wrong.

He opened one eye, then the other, and let the overly bright light of the sconces blur slowly into his field of vision. His aching, stiff muscles felt as though they hadn't moved in days, and the sticky, dry feeling in his mouth agreed with the assessment. With what seemed to be far too much effort, he lifted his head, grimacing as Bleakgrave's sallow profile swam in and out of focus.

"Oh, bloody hell. It's you," Spike croaked, sagging against the unyielding back of the chair.

"Gosh, look who's finally conscious. Were you expecting someone else?" Bleakgrave turned to grin at him with the kind of secretive amusement usually reserved for cheating card players and deceitful salesmen. The magician finished wiping his red-stained fingers on a dishrag, and tossed it aside.

It was then that Spike glanced at the floor, and noticed that it was covered in blood… no, not blood, it was too bright to be blood. Clay, perhaps. Maybe paint. Regardless, the mixture was thickly spread around the perimeter of his chair, discoloring the stone with arcane symbols and latin words. _Anima_. _Sejungo._ Circles, dots, swooping lines. It was obvious that Bleakgrave had been working on the soul harvesting spell for a while, and the sheer amount of animosity Spike felt for the man wrapped around him like stiflingly hot blanket. So naturally, Spike lashed out the only way he was still able.

"Was hopin' it was someone other than you. That Manson chap, perhaps. Hitler. A ravenous bear..."

"Sorry to let you down," Bleakgrave said, approaching to pat Spike's face in an unapologetic, condescending way. "I'm glad you're awake now, however. I was beginning to think you might sleep through the main event… now that would a _real_ disappointment."

"You would know... _bein'_ one, and all. Wager everyone's favorite trick is when you disappear off the stage." Spike took what little satisfaction he could glean at the flash of irritation that passed over the man's face.

"Now now, I thought you and I had come to a friendly understanding," the magician objected.

"Well, Beercrave, I did. Concluded that you're a trite, sad excuse of a wanker with no pizazz and the worst haircut since Lloyd Christmas graced the silver screen." At the magician's thunderous expression, Spike added, "And a word of advice, Chimney Breath, the sooner you mojo up some Yule-log sized tic-tacs, the sooner everyone can stop gaggin' on your exhales."

Bleakgrave grabbed a fistful of Spike's shirt, hauling him so close that Spike could see the glimmer of silver threads in the collar of his blue jacket. He didn't recall the magician ever wearing such an outfit, and wondered again how long he'd been incarcerated in the chair. Had it been three days?

"I don't usually _enjoy_ this part of my job, necessary as it is," the magician admitted. "Sometimes I even put my subjects to sleep before I harvest their souls, to spare them some of the pain. It's a pity really, that so few of them have the opportunity to witness my talents and see the beauty of what I do. I'm sure it's inspiring..." He paused and glared at Spike. "Why are you smiling at me like that?"

"You pronounced _inspirin'_ wrong."

"Another change in the local dialect? How should I have pronounced it?"

" _Ex-pirin'._ You know, because you soddin' kill them, not encourage them to go home and work on their sleight of hand."

Bleakgrave shoved Spike roughly back into the chair. "And that brings me to my point, dear boy. You're still full of sass and vinegar, and I've already wasted enough energy on you. Congratulations. The show's about to start, and you've bought yourself front row tickets. I think I'm going to enjoy hearing you scream."

"Bring it on, you pig-ugly mingebag."

"With pleasure," Bleakgrave said, picking a long, brassy rod with a nasty looking pointed tip off the floor. Spike was positive it hadn't been lying there ten seconds ago.

"Hey… hey, wait a sec…" he quavered, pushing himself as far back into the chair as he could go. A full half of inch of distance. "What're you plannin' on doin' with that?"

"You didn't think I did this whole thing with just magic did you?"

Spike swallowed what little saliva he had left.

"Because you see, it's difficult to extract a soul, and so it's beneficial," Bleakgrave said, lining up the sharp end with the middle of Spike's sternum, "to give it a little help tunneling out the old-fashioned way."

Spike's stomach muscles tensed up as Bleakgrave pulled back the rod, but nothing could have prepared him for the white hot-poker pain that blossomed inside as the instrument pierced his breastbone. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't allow the magician the satisfaction of hearing him cry out at all, and he almost, _almost_ kept his pledge, were it not for the low moan that escaped his lips when Bleakgrave unhurriedly pulled the stick back out.

"There. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

The tang of blood welled up from the back of Spike's throat and surged onto his tongue. With flaring nostrils and bared teeth, he gave Bleakgrave the blackest look he could summon.

"Did it sting a bit? Well, if you didn't like that, I hate to say it, but you _really_ aren't going to like what comes next," the magician informed him, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a tiny, rounded bottle of opalescent liquid and cracked off the waxy seal that covered the opening.

"Bottom's up," Bleakgrave said, and moved the bottle towards Spike's mouth. Unwilling to play the magician's twisted game of airplane, Spike clamped his jaw tight and continued to glare at him.

The man sighed. "Look, we can do this the easy way, or I can make that incision in your chest a bit wider, and pour it in that way. Which would you prefer?"

"What is that swill?" Spike choked out, warily eyeing the fluid in the glass. Despite his resistance to wash it down, he was fairly sure he'd rather imbibe it than be filled with it like he was a fuel tank.

"Simply put, it's the blood of double-headed Egyptian frog. A delicacy, since it's such a rare substance. You should be honored."

"Yeah? You give it to all your guests, then?"

"Just the ones I need something from," Bleakgrave replied, raising the bottle to Spike's lips again. Begrudgingly, Spike opened his mouth and let the magician tip the contents down his throat. It was as bitter in flavor as beer hops and it left a bizarre tingling sensation as it raced towards his stomach.

"How do you feel?" Bleakgrave asked, studying Spike's reaction to the tonic.

"Peachy," Spike lied.

"Hang on to that positivity." Bleakgrave tossed the empty bottle towards the corner of the room, and the glass fractured into a hundred tiny fragments that melted away into the floor. He then tapped his foot impatiently and inclined his head towards the opening above. "HODGES?"

In a flurry of tiny steps that sounded like pattering raindrops, the magician's tiny servant came flying down the stairway. Spike couldn't be sure, as distracted as he was by the biting pain in the middle of his torso, but it seemed to take a full minute for the demon to make it all the way down.

"Yes, sir?" the creature panted, bending at the waist like a question mark in front of the magician.

"The illustrious Angel is prepared and ready to fulfill his end of our bargain. Bring forth the box."

Hodge's eyes darted back and forth uncertainly between Spike and Bleakgrave. "Of… of course, sir. Just… uh, just a moment."

Bleakgrave lowered his chin and gave the slight-statured demon a careful inspection. "Something wrong, Hodges?"

"No, of course not. Sir. It's just that A-"

"A what?"

"A… it's a long way back up the stairs."

"It's your _job_ to fetch my things when I need them," Bleakgrave hissed, "and whether it be stairs or burning coals or shark-infested oceans, you're expected to traverse them without complaint. I didn't think I'd need to explain that to you."

"Yes sir, I'll go and-"

"-You know what?" Bleakgrave interrupted. "This is taking far too much time. Where is it?"

Hodges seemed to shrink to an even smaller size. "Your bedroom, sir. In the green chest."

Bleakgrave closed his eyes, murmured a few words that Spike didn't comprehend, and the rustic wooden box shimmered and solidified into the magician's waiting hands.

"If you want something done right… or at all…" the magician sniped, casting an angry glance at his servant. "Go make yourself useful and… feed the hounds or something."

Hodge's eyes connected briefly with Spike's once more before he gave a half bow to the magician and began flusteredly hopping back up the stairs to the chapel.

"Now. Where were we? Oh yes… the grand finale." Bleakgrave placed the box on the floor and rolled up his left sleeve, then his right. He squatted down on his haunches and lifted the cover off the wooden box, placing it reverently on the stone next to it. Morbid curiosity drove him to look, but the only thing Spike could see inside the box was darkness, velvety and infinite.

Then Bleakgrave turned his muddy stare to Spike, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a full, malicious smile, and he whispered, "Subduco."

If Spike's very existence was somehow turned into a Sunday crossword, a puzzle teeming with black squares and mostly downward clues, the only one-word answer to describe the pain of Bleakgrave's spell would be _devastating_. There was absolutely nothing in Spike's mind that could compare to the experience. A scorching, binding force seemed to wrap tightly around his chest, squeezing and clawing at his ribs with unseen razor teeth and diamond-sharp fingernails.

Instinctively, his hands scurried for purchase on the arms of the chair, but the metal that bound him held fast and bit into his skin. A sharp crack resounded in the room, and the ache ramped up to exquisite agony.

He thought of Charlie.

He tried to focus his sight on something other than Bleakgrave. There- a piece of grey lint floating through the air like a wayward, powdery snowflake. He watched it hover, so peaceful, so soft. Comforting. It was joined by several more, and as he began to feel his flesh sizzle, he realized it wasn't lint; it was coming from the wound that the magician was inflicting. With nothing left but impenetrable suffering, Spike became undone.

He screamed until he was hoarse, felt something wet drip down his face, and he was unsure if he was bleeding, crying, sweating, or all three. He hated himself for breaking down and hated Bleakgrave even more.

His vision flashed with iridescent colors and he felt as though his body was being sucked forward into oblivion. And then his world took a swan dive into inky emptiness.

* * *

There was a fly buzzing all over Spike's face, landing on him, roaming around on its tiny fly legs and stomping all over his cheek.

"Come on, come on!" its insistent voice hummed into his ear.

Spike would have giggled if his body didn't feel like it'd been torn apart with can opener. Who would've figured that there were talking flies in the afterworld? It was probably a hell dimension of talking flies, all upchucking their food and shitting on every surface they landed on, rubbing their greedy fly hands together as they verbally plotted to take over a nice ripe banana.

Maybe _he_ was a fly.

Spike lifted an arm to make sure he hadn't pulled a Seth Brundle and sprouted wings, only to be hit with a wave of nausea for his efforts. He rolled onto his side and retched absolutely nothing onto the cool, spongy grass he was lying on.

Grass.

Spike sniffed the air… it was chilled and sweet, and he began filling himself with lungfuls of it. He opened his eyes just as the owner of the voice he'd heard slapped him across the face again.

"Oi," Spike protested, though it came out sounding raw and weak. He lifted his head towards the offending individual.

"Apologies… I thought you were going lights out again…" Two dark eyes, set like buttons into a rounded, bald head blinked down at him. Hodges. God dammit.

"And I thought this day couldn't get any better," Spike managed to wheeze out. "Bleaks sent you outside with me so there wouldn't be a mess when you finished me off?"

"Yes, actually. He's very meticulous when it comes to domestic matters."

Spike stifled a groan. Even with Hodge's tiny stature, he didn't feel in any condition to fend the demon off. But he refused to go down… down _er_ … without a fight. Sluggishly, he rolled onto his back and waited for Hodges to make his move. And waited. And waited.

"If it's gonna take all bloody night, Jeeves, be a good boy and fetch a few issues of Hustler so I don't drop off due to boredom while I wait. Or is that your modus operandi?" Spike grumbled. He wanted sleep. Or at least to get the seven hells away from Bleakgrave's property. He couldn't do either with the magician's servant standing over him like a muppet-sized executioner.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you. I'm letting you go. Just… uh, maybe keep a low profile for a while, so Bleakgrave doesn't find out."

Well, this was an interesting development. Who would've known that Bleakgrave's devoted servant was actually… not very devoted? Spike twisted his head to raise a very skeptical eyebrow at the servant. "Forgive me, o' unloyal one, but might I ask why you've all of a sudden seen fit to lend me your small but rocklike helpin' hands?"

The demon rubbed his neck self-consciously. "I didn't realize that you were _the_ Angel… you saved my cousin in L.A., a year or two back. Horatio?

There was a long bout of silence before Spike's frazzled brain hopped onto the track of self-preservation. "Yeah, course. Horatio. Good chap," he lied.

"Yeah, he is. And he's got three little ones now. The youngest just grew in his first set of slime sacs, you know."

"Wonderful. Look, Hodges, since we're goin' with Operation Depart rather than Operation Departed, any chance for a little assistance of the physical sort so I can make a break for it?"

"I was about to suggest it myself," the demon said, bending down to slip an arm under Spike's shoulder. "Which way are you heading?"

* * *

Hodges, as it turned out, was a pretty decent bloke for the lackey of a pillock the size and breadth of Bleaks. He not only helped Spike get back onto his feet, but discreetly escorted him along the side of the gardens to the edge of the woods.

Once the Hodges was satisfied that Spike was capable of continuing on his own, the demon gave him a companionable pat on the arm and began to backtrack towards the gardens. He paused after a dozen or so steps, turning briefly and giving Spike an indecipherable stare. "Angel? You should get your friends out of town as soon as possible."

Right… because the magician had some upcoming plans for the residents of Sunnydale or something. A few details might be nice. "And why might that be?" Spike asked.

A loud, popping explosion sounded from somewhere in the vicinity of the palace, and Hodges glanced back at the building in alarm. "Because… the Pluto personnel," he replied, faltering as one of Versaille's upper story windows lit up in an intense, radiant turquoise light.

"The who?"

"No, not-"

The supernaturally loud sound of Bleakgrave bellowing Hodge's name reverberated from seemingly everywhere. "Go, go!" Hodges hissed, crazily waving his hands at Spike like the starter in a marathon as he took off sprinting in the direction of the palace.

Spike didn't need any more encouragement, and in a flash, he was wading into the overgrown brush and brambles of the forest. Around rotting stumps, through bushes, over jutting rocks. It became clear after a few minutes that he should be hurting more than he felt, but adrenaline was thrumming through his veins like wildfire and pressing him onwards.

He turned his footslog into a series of objectives. Make it to the edge of the woods and onto the dusty pathway, rest for a moment. Get to that tree without stumbling, lean against it for a short time. It could have been an hour, it felt like a hundred years, but eventually tall hardwoods succumbed to buildings and gravel ceded to pavement, and Spike was gladdened for the distance from the palace.

As he stumbled towards the heart of Sunnydale, his tattered suit covered in burrs and grass stains, he passed the art gallery that belonged to Joyce. The shades were drawn and it looked dark inside the exhibit, but there was a couple sitting on the benches outside slurping at their coffee and gorging on fast food from the Sunnydale Mall food court. Their hamburgers smelled like anguish and they huddled close together as Spike queasily shuffled past.

Three steps, six steps, ten. Twenty.

Something on the sidewalk briefly reflected the green flash of the stoplight at the intersection of Regency and Oak. Spike carefully knelt to inspect it, and realizing it was a quarter, he scooped it up and pressed it reverently into the palm of his hand. _Not much longer_ , he told himself. _Just a little longer, gonna make it_.

The pay phone was halfway up the street. As Spike rested his back against the glass walls of the phone booth, he slid his forefinger down the Metaphysical Products and Services section of the yellow phonebook pages until he found the number he needed. With shaky hands, he dropped the coin into the pay phone slot, lifted the phone off the receiver, and dialed the digits to the Magic Box. It began ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

And then Anya's perky voice filled his ear, giving him the hours and location of the store. Spike thumped the back of his head against the glass. At least the phonebook would allow him look up the Watcher's number or try giving the Slayer a call, and chances were good that Charlie was with one of them. With a sigh, he hung up before Anya demanded a message, and waited patiently for the quarter to come back through the change slot so he could try again. Giles's flat. The Summers' residence, maybe.

After a drawn-out, sickening moment, he realized the pay phone had eaten his coin.

"BLOODY WANKER FUCK-IT BOLLICKIN' hunk of _SHIT_ ," he cursed, unintentionally scaring the wits out of a pedestrian walking by. He wanted to knock the useless pay phone out of the booth, but in his weak state, he settled for picking up the handset and futilely slamming it back down on the receiver a few times. The movement didn't do him any favors, and with the upsurge of throbbing in his upper torso, he abandoned the phone and began the next excruciating leg of his pilgrimage.

A gossamer curtain of fog had fallen over the Sunnydale Cemetery, and the pale, dead face of the moon seemed to float menacingly above it. The gravestones were swallowed by the shadows the moonlight made, and everywhere he looked, Spike expected to find Bleakgrave waiting for him. Wrapping his arms around himself to stop a shudder, he made a sharp turn at the Alpert mausoleum and finally spied his destination. The crypt loomed up from the ground like a fortified castle keep, and he hastened his footsteps towards it.

The rusty, iron-barred door was swinging in the nighttime breeze, scritching an erratic melody with no sign of locks or chains to keep it closed. It worried him. He took a cautious step inside.

All dark.

"Charlie? Luv?" he rasped.

The only response was the terrified scampering of a squirrel that had been huddled on top of the sarcophagus. Its wiry grey form bolted past the wide-open, unplugged refrigerator, over Spike's mangled dress shoes and out into the night with a few indignant squeaks.

As a handful of russet, papery leaves whistled inside with a light gust of wind, Spike noticed that though the furniture was still there, it had all been moved inconspicuously against the walls of the crypt. The television had been shoved into a corner and covered in a ratty blanket. The candles were gone. But nothing seemed to be in disarray, and there were no signs of a disturbance. That, at least, was a relief.

He didn't even attempt to go down the ladder to the lower portion of the crypt, knowing full well that he'd never make it back up again anyway. He was positive that Charlie had vacated, and there was no use staying unless he planned on making it permanent.

A lone, partially-filled bottle of Jack caught his eye on the way back outside and he downed a few mouthfuls to dull his pain, sputtering and yelling in agony as the alcohol sloshed down into his chest cavity and stung like a nest of fire ants. He laid a hand against his breastbone, and it came away stained with a sludgy brown mixture of blood and ashes. It was a terrible wound, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to inspect it.

The floor of the crypt seemed to croon a siren song that tempted him to lie against it for just a short while, but he refused to indulge himself. He would rest when he found Charlie. And so he left the cemetery behind.

The watcher's flat was the next closest destination on his list, and Spike walked towards it on autopilot, squinting in the overly bright glow of car headlights as they raced by. There was a strange dichotomy between his thoughts and senses. His vision, his sense of smell seemed too sharp, over-amplified, in great contrast to the way the synapses in his mind were sluggishly moving. He was going to bloody crucify Bleakgrave if he ever got the chance.

It seemed as though ages had passed when finally, Spike passed through the archway into the courtyard of Giles's charmingly quaint apartment complex. He found the right number, and with the last reserves of his energy, Spike hit his fist against the watcher's spanish-patterned door, holding the frame for support once he'd finished his desperate rhythm. The peephole window darkened momentarily, and then the door was cautiously creaked open. The watcher stood in the doorway, confusion written on his brow and a crossbow balanced in his hand, the arrow pointed directly at Spike's heart. Slowly, Giles lowered the weapon, staring in shock at the hole in Spike's dress shirt.

Spike was too tired to speak, was in too much pain to stand any longer. He sunk to his knees and the only thing he could do was look imploringly inside the apartment.

Blurrily, he could make out the ghostly, delicate contours of Charlie's face through the kitchen passway. It was the last thing he saw before Spike finally gave in to his exhaustion and collapsed onto the threshold.

* * *

The floating sensation was downright euphoric. Buoyant in what could only be a sea of pillows, Spike felt something smooth and gentle being stroked against his forehead, and in the distance, someone hummed and murmured comforting noises. The edge of a damp cloth against his head and a cloud of dark blonde hair came into focus when he opened his eyes. Tara.

"Oh, hey, y- you're awake," she stammered.

Spike didn't have the energy to examine his surroundings, but it was easy enough to discern that he was lying on his back on the watcher's velvety green sofa. It hurt too much to even think about sitting up, but it was so oddly quiet in the room that he almost tried. Where the hell was everyone else? And where had Charlie gone?

"Char-" he began, his throat constricting painfully around the words he tried to speak. He raised a fist to his mouth as he began to cough, wincing as his hand came away covered a dry, blackened residue.

"Charred? Yeah, I know, you got burned pretty bad," Tara sympathized, wiping his mouth with the washcloth.

Spike shook his head and mimed drinking with his hand.

"Oh, water? Of course!" Tara raised her head and spoke to someone on the other side of the couch. "Can you grab some?"

Spike heard the flutter of opening cabinets and chinking glasses, and finally the sound of the tap being turned on. A few footsteps later, Charlie materialized into Spike's view with a tumbler of water. She looked about as tired as he felt, with pale purple thumbprints smudged under her eyes and her cascade of dark hair pulled back in a clumsy knot. Still beautiful.

"I'll g-go let Giles know that he's awake. Do you mind?" Tara asked, relinquishing the space on the coffee table that she'd been using as a seat.

Charlie looked like she minded quite a bit, but she only shook her head and watched uncomfortably as Tara left the room. Spike heard the far-off dial tones of a telephone.

A hardness swept across Charlie's face as she knelt down on the floor beside the couch and glanced at Spike's chest, but her mossy green eyes went soft again when they connected with his.

"I thought you were a goner," she said quietly, carefully cupping the back of his head and tilting it just enough that he could take a few sips of water when she held the glass to his lips. It burned as it washed down his throat, but he felt as though it were washing away every bit of soot and the lingering residue of Bleakgrave's spell.

He tried to think of a clever reply, something witty or amusing that would make her laugh. But his brain had short-circuited at about the same time as when her deft fingers connected with the nape of his neck, and all he could do was give her a foolish smile and mumble, "You and me both, luv."

When he slid his left hand down Charlie's wrist and let it rest on top of her fingers that were clutching the drink, the empathetic expression on her face made a hasty retreat. She pulled her hand away and placed the glass on the coffee table.

Her mouth opened as though she were about to say something, but she was interrupted by the awful, hacking sound of Spike coughing up another round of ashes and blood. Sighing, she retrieved the tumbler and slanted it against his lips again. "What's your name, anyway?" she asked.

Spike stared at her. He knew who she was, her life story. And while he didn't know exactly why, he was sure he loved her more deeply than he could adequately describe. He could name Buffy, and every one of her merry band of Scoobies. He knew that Clinton was the US president, that autotuning was the worst thing to happen to the music industry since boy bands.

But what was his name? His age? His social security number? His mind wasn't just foggy, he truly had no idea who he was or how he'd even arrived in Bleakgrave's clutches to begin with... and apparently neither did Charlie.

"Don't know… can't remember," Spike whispered.

* * *

 _A/N2: Oops._


	36. Chapter 36- Riddles In the Dark

Seven sets of eyes peered back at Spike from various locations in Giles's living room, reflecting sentiments that ranged from pity, to wariness, to downright distrustfulness. Spike could smell what they'd eaten for dinner, could feel the room heating up with their mere presence and nervous fidgeting. The boy was tapping his finger unceasingly against his leg and it had gone well past the point of annoying five minutes ago.

The whole situation put Spike on edge, lying as prone and defenseless as a mewling kitten on Rupert's couch, and he began to wonder if crawling all the way to Watcher HQ had really been the best of ideas. The man himself had returned from whatever mission he'd been on a scant twenty minutes previous, towing an entire entourage behind him; Buffy, Xander, Anya, and the relish on Spike's supreme sandwich of suckage, Angel. The whole lot of them had immediately set to task, circling, staring, and interrogating with an intensity that would've put the Spanish Inquisition to shame.

 _Don't trust them,_ Spike's brain shrieked out, muffled by something that felt as thick and fuzzy as a Turkish bath towel. But despite the ambiguous warning blaring like a distant siren in his head, Spike felt certain he knew them all. It was very abstract, as though he'd watched one of those half-baked telly sitcoms, and they'd been the lead actors and wacky, rather useless sidekicks. He couldn't recall having a single personal experience with any of them, and yet he was sure he could fill entire notebooks with the lowdown on each of them.

The watcher studied Spike from over the top of his wireframes, leaning forward in his carved wooden chair like a king amongst the rest of his council. The man rubbed his hand back and forth against his chin as he spoke. "So you're quite certain you don't remember anything about yourself, aside from waking up just before Bleakgrave performed the...the harvest? Any detail, big or small?"

"Still foggy 'round the lobes, same as the last two times you inquired," Spike bluntly reiterated for the third time.

"That's okay. Maybe it's just a side effect of the spell… I mean, no one's survived it before, as far as we know," Buffy offered, in a gentle, kindly way. _Not_ what Spike was expecting. "Maybe you'll start remembering in a little while."

"But why exactly did you end up _here_ of all places?" Giles asked. "There must be hundreds of houses and apartments between this complex and the palace… surely you could've found someone closer. Somebody must've been home..."

Spike was far too tired to come up with any logical fabrication, and decided to stick to the simplest version of the truth he could without overplaying his hand. "Was lookin' for Charlie," he confessed. "Wasn't home, knew she lingered 'round this joint from time to time."

The room turned into a ping-pong match of startled glances, with the exception of the girl in question. Spike's eyes drank her in, from the bottoms of her mismatched socks to the crease of confusion that had formed between her brows. As she stared back at him from her spot in front of the fireplace, he became lost in the scent of chlorine and swirling visions of soft, pale skin. It was maddening, not having the memories his senses were connected to.

"Um, have we met before? How did you know my name… or more importantly, where I live?" Charlie asked uncertainly, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

"Just do, not sure how..."

A disbelieving grunt cut through the tense quiet in the room, and Spike narrowed his sights on the producer of it. Angel was skulking in the corner by Rupert's overcrowded bookshelf, face composed and eyes hooded, but he positively crackled with suspicious vigilance. "Doesn't smell right," the dark haired vampire muttered under his breath. No one else seemed to hear him, but they seemed to be thinking the same thing anyway.

"Jesus Awkward Christ," Charlie suddenly cursed. "We must've run across each other at that frat party a few weeks ago! That actually explains some things… I was all sorts of drunk. Big mess. Hardly remember a thing from that night. Did we… you know…" Her eyes dropped to the cocky smirk that was just starting to form on Spike's lips, "Uh… nevermind."

Giles appeared more than happy to avoid the topic of drunken hookups altogether. "Is there anyone else that you remember? Family, perhaps?"

Oh, there were _plenty_ of people that Spike knew, but he instantly reassessed the wisdom of divulging just how much he _did_ actually know about each of them. Couldn't risk it, especially given the reaction of the group to hearing him divulge just a trifle about Charlie. There were no two ways about it, the Scoobies were a cautious, paranoid bunch. If they even caught a whiff of something unexplainable that smelled vaguely threat-like, Spike had no doubt he'd be back on the street to fend for himself. Or worse.

"The lot of you seem familiar, but can't recall the brass tacks." Spike's tongue was thick in his mouth when he spoke, and he could hear the raw, raspiness in his voice. Worse, there was an increasingly empty, gnawing feeling that was beginning to scrape at his stomach. Felt like he hadn't eaten in weeks. That or Bleaks had torn a few holes in his gut to match the one in his chest. Spike gripped the couch cushions, despising how violently his hands were trembling.

Tara seemed to recognize his growing discomfort, and helped him lean forward so she could fluff up the pillow behind him. "Here," she said, handing him the water glass again. "Can we g-get you anything else?"

"Am a bit peckish, actually," Spike admitted after taking a few short sips.

"Oooh!" Buffy hopped off her stool. "There's leftover Domino's from the other night! Buffalo Chicken slice?"

It didn't sound like the most appetizing meal choice, but Spike was hard pressed to think up anything that sounded better. Maybe Bleakgrave's glistening, still-beating heart on a platter made out of his rib bones. Not that it was _edible_ , but hell, the murderous thought was making Spike's mouth water in anticipation. Strange, that. The slayer noticed his delay in replying.

"Don't worry, it's not really buffalo," Buffy continued. "It's just what they call the sauce." Spike turned his thoughts away from vengeance just in time to watch her cheeks flare pink. "And I'm not telling you that because _I_ ever thought it was made from buffaloes, but because you've forgotten a lot of stuff-"

"-Buffy?" the watcher interrupted. "Perhaps something a tad less… heartburn-inducing would be more appropriate, given his state. Some broth maybe? There's soup stock in the bottom cupboard."

"Oh, Giles, you just can't eat the spicy pizza 'cause you're _totally_ old… school… uh, with your… really great eating habits. You know, all healthy with the fruits and veggies, three square meals, humble pie and... I'll just go get the soup." The slayer slipped into the kitchen, and Spike heard the creaking of a tin can being ratcheted open and the beeps and subsequent buzz of the microwave.

"I'm gonna grab something too," Angel said to Giles after a moment. "Mind if I borrow a mug? I'll make sure to wash it thoroughly."

"Yes, fine," Giles replied distractedly, too busy frowning at Spike in search of clues to focus on anything else. The vampire's words seemed to catch up with him as Angel followed in Buffy's footsteps. "Use the yellow one at the back of the cupboard," the watcher added hastily.

With nothing more to say, Spike stared right back at Giles until he got bored, and then glared at the most hideous thing in the room. The stained glass dragonfly lamp on the side table next to the couch glowed with appallingly repulsive shades of green and purple, and Spike was sure he'd spent some of his missing history mocking Rupert for his unfortunate interior design taste. It was almost as though the man was using his home as storage for all the oddities he couldn't sell off in his store. Goddess statues, brass tchotchkes, an aerodynamic leather chair... none of it matched, and most of it failed to fit the watcher's tedious personality.

Xander broke the uneasy silence that had fallen over the room like a blanket of frost. "So Bleakgrave's assistant just let you go? I didn't know he even had one. Must be part of the Big Bad Magician package deal."

"Comes with a wand, a topper, and a whimsical fetish for impalin' innocent bystanders," Spike agreed. "Bleak's little helper is a bit of a height deficient chap, in need of a good dollop of Rogaine. Also, not terribly evil on a scale of one to… evil."

Charlie sat up a touch straighter. "Hodges."

Spike eagerly looked her way. "Yeah, that's the bloke. You know him?"

"Not exactly. Encountered him once in L.A," Charlie replied, her gaze going distant, as though she were trying to remember the details.

It was then that microwave bleeped a celebratory finishing tune, and Buffy returned from the kitchen, fingers wrapped around a mug embellished with sculpted daisies. The slayer placed it in Spike's waiting hands, careful not to slosh the hot and buttery liquid. It was steaming with aromas of thyme, bay, and parsley, and Spike took a long, appreciative sip. The broth masked the taste of ashes in his mouth, and before it even registered, he had drunk it all.

He could feel the warmth of it pooling in the pit of his stomach, but to his surprise and dismay, it did nothing to satisfy the corrosive hunger that was beginning to overwhelm him. If anything he felt weaker. Hungrier. _But something cooking in the kitchen smells wonderful,_ he thought, as Buffy descended to take his empty mug and Tara moved in to recheck the gradually darkening gauze on his chest.

Spike's nostrils flared as he took in the scent wafting through the passway, and he realized with some alarm that it was the Poof's supper of blood heating in the microwave. The smell was inviting and succulent with a metallic tang that seemed to weigh heavily on the air. Even without the memories of having imbibed it, Spike could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue, could feel it ghost down his throat in thick, sweltering rivulets. He barely registered the witch's warm fingers around his wrist. What the ever-buggering fuck had Bleakgrave done to him?

Tara's eyes widened and she snatched her hand away from his arm. "Um, hey, g-guys? He doesn't… he doesn't have a _pulse_."

Spike rapidly refocused his attention. "I don't?"

Giles abandoned his chair and squatted down next to the couch, pinning his fingers to the artery in Spike's neck. After a full minute passed, the watcher met Spike's gaze. "I'm afraid not…"

"Bleakgrave made a zombie?" Xander exclaimed, eyes bugging in cartoon-like fashion. "Like a flesh-munching, brain-eating, night of the living dead ZOMBIE?"

"Um, is there a different kind?" Buffy asked.

Anya shook her head with the assurance of an expert-level zombie specialist. "He's far too coherent to be a zombie."

Spike could see the wheels turning in the slayer's skull as she scrutinized him; assessing, calculating, judging his fate. "So, vampire?" she speculated.

"No, I think not. We wouldn't have been able to drag him inside if he was. And besides… he does appear to be breathing," Giles countered.

"I don't need invitation to enter houses!" Charlie pointed out. "And since we're pretty sure that Bleakgrave somehow turned me into a vampire with Bizzaro world side effects, it could be the same for him."

All eyes fell back to Spike. "Well? Are you a vampire?" Anya asked him.

"No!" Spike declared vehemently. He wasn't… was he? Just had a peculiar inclination towards the smell of plasma. He had no desire to bite anyone in the room… his eyes flicked to the slayer... for the most part, anyway. "Don't think so," he added.

"Then what is he?" Charlie asked.

Angel, treading back to his place in the corner, took a pronounced sniff at the air. "I knew something smelled off. It's his blood. Whatever he is, he's definitely dead."

"And he's _definitely_ still hungry because no one's fed him BRAINS yet!" Xander yelped, snatching one of the long, iron candlesticks off the hearth and gripping it like a baseball bat. "Shouldn't we be taking some precautions here?!"

"Xander," the watcher huffed, "Unhand the decor. If indeed, this gentleman was turned into a zombie, which I can assure you, he was not, you would have nothing to worry about."

"Oh. You don't think zombies eat brains?"

"I don't believe they'd go after yours," the watcher replied dryly.

"The brain thing is a misnomer," Anya informed them, removing the candlestick from her boyfriend's rigid hands and replacing it next to the fireplace. "Zombies only eat them if their zombie masters tell them too. I'm sticking with vampire as my final answer."

"Well, there's always the quick, easy way to check," the slayer said as she began digging savagely through her deep coat pockets. Spike made a fast check of the distance to the front door. Painfully far, but he was willing to make a break for it all the same. Vampire or not, he'd had enough of being skewered for one lifetime.

"Y-You're just gonna stake him and see if he dusts?!" Tara blurted out. "Can't we try- oh."

Buffy shot the witch a keen, amused look as she finished pulling a makeup compact out of her pocket, and with a sigh of relief, Spike relaxed back into his pillow. The slayer flipped the enameled mirror open and turned her back to the couch, holding it up above her shoulder. "And that's a negative on the reflection."

Spike could feel everyone in the room stiffen up, and he watched as the slayer put the compact away, discreetly shoving something else into the band of her jeans. Presumably not a long, pointy tube of lipgloss.

"Welcome to Vampire Club," Charlie muttered.

Spike raised an eyebrow at her. "First rule not to chat about it?"

Her eyes connected with his. "The first rule is to stay away from sharpened sticks."

It was strange. He knew that discovering he was a vampire should have bothered him, but it didn't. It excited him. Opened up possibilities. It meant that he was powerful, immortal. Probably sexy. He sent Charlie the most flirtatious smile he could conjure, which dissolved from his face the moment he tried shifting an arm behind his head in an inviting, seductive way. Obviously, being a vampire also meant that he needed to eat someone, or at least their vital fluids if he was going to feel any semblance of _better._

"So… does that mean… could I have some… blood?" Spike asked, with a longing glance at the _Kiss the Librarian_ mug in Angel's hand.

The mug paused halfway to the vampire's mouth. Spike watched the muscles in Angel's jaw flex in frustration as the rest of the room's occupants looked at him expectantly. "Fine," the vampire grumbled, placing the coffee cup down and shoving it none-so-gently across the table.

Spike didn't hesitate. He snatched it by the handle, and the sanguine liquid was passing through his lips within seconds. The shifting of his facial bones vibrated in his ears and he felt his teeth lengthen and taper, but it didn't faze him. The blood was as dizzyingly ambrosial as it smelled. Uncaring of the graceless way he drank, it dripped down the side of his mouth as he took excessive, needy gulps.

"So now what?" Xander asked, as he unsuccessfully tried to tear his eyes away from Spike guzzling down a half pint of pig's blood.

Buffy scowled at the boy. "What do you mean, _now what_?"

"There's an amnesiac vampire that's slowly turning Giles's green futon into Giles's red futon, and apparently the only thing Undead English Patient can remember is Charlie and what Bleakgrave did to him before he escaped. Do we a.) save him, b.) stake him, or c.) use him as collateral?"

"Hey!" Spike stopped drinking long enough to growl over the rim of his mug. "You have no bleedin' idea what nationality I am!"

"If we're sticking with the multiple choice format, I'd say d.), find an audiologist that specializes in vampire hearing impairments," the slayer said, with a pointed look at Spike. "Sorry, guy, but you're definitely from the motherland."

"Oh, right, I sound _just_ like Upper Crusty over there. Maybe we'll catch some Manchester United on the telly and then we'll have a cuppa while we smear some soddin' Marmite on-" Spike paused. "Oh, god. I'm English."

"Shall I put the kettle on?" the watcher asked smugly.

Spike aptly chose draining his meal over continuing to talk himself into a hole.

"Look, vampire or not, he _is_ a victim of Bleakgrave," Buffy said. "We'll have to take a lot of precautions with him until we know for sure what we're dealing with, but he's the only one that's lived through the soul harvesting." She made a face, " _Sort of_ lived, anyway. We need every advantage when it comes to fighting Bleakgrave, and if his memory comes back, he could be what changes the tides in our favor. He stays with us until further notice. Is that clear to everyone?"

None of the group outright disagreed, but there were one or two rather deep sounding noises of protest. Buffy's bright smile appeared very, very forced as she looked around the room. "Does anyone have any questions?"

Anya cleared her throat and raised her hand. "So if he doesn't know his name, what are we supposed to we call him?"

Buffy studied Spike for a moment. "He looks like a… Randy," she declared.

Spike finished licking the remaining film of blood off the inside edge of the mug. He pushed the feral craving out of his mind, and felt his face morph back to human. "I look _what_?"

Charlie rolled her eyes. "He _looks_ like undead Gilbert Kane."

"Who?" Giles asked.

Xander folded his arms across his chest and gazed uneasily at Spike. "If we're going with the Incarcerate and Study routine, I think Riley left off at sixteen captures before the Initiative imploded. We could call him Hostile 17."

"I thought we agreed not to talk about Riley," Buffy said quietly.

So G.I. Jerkwad wasn't part of the team anymore. Interesting.

"No, _you_ said you didn't want to talk about Riley. But Riley and I are still friends, even if he did take the first helicopter to South America without telling me he was leaving. Or telling me when he was coming back." Xander frowned. "Or saying goodbye. But the point is, he's still a good guy, and I'm not going to pretend like he was never here."

"He abandoned all of us and you're still taking his side?"

"Hey, bros before h-" Xander paused under the wrathful gaze of every female in the room. "Heroes," he finished.

"Look, if you guys want to stand around and name your new pet vampire, that's great," Angel said impatiently. "But some of us have more important things to do. Like a second trip to the butchers. Oh, and the small matter of figuring out how to kick Bleakgrave's magical ass."

Giles nodded. "Quite right. Only time will tell if… our friend here's memory will return. We can go over the details of what he _does_ remember in the morning after he's had a bit of rest."

"Yeah, okay," Buffy agreed. "I forgot a few basic necessities from my house, so I need to head out anyway. Giles, I think I there's some chains and stuff in my basement, want me to grab them for you and swing by later?"

Giles blinked at the slayer. "Whatever would I need chains for?"

"You're English, he's English," Buffy said with a shrug. "I'm sure you'd have lots of things to talk about… teapots and tall busses… oooh… and the queen!"

"He can't stay here!" Giles exclaimed, whipping off his glasses and expressing the full might of his outrage. "What would I do with him? Chain him to my bath tub?!"

Spike's head snapped up. The _chains_ and _stuff_ was for him? They were going to tie him up like a sodding rabid animal while they figured out what to do with him? If it came to that, there was no way he planned on sticking around. Spike glared at both of them incredulously. "Hey! Do I get any bleedin' say in any of this?" he snarled, "'Cause I am _quite_ certain-"

"-Well he can't stay with me," Buffy continued, cutting off Spike's protest with a swish of her hand. "It's pretty tight at the Motor Inn. Anya, Xander... maybe you could take him?

The ex-demon looked Spike up and down distastefully, eyeing his grime covered clothing and the wound that was still leaking onto Giles's couch. "Oh, I wish we could, but I don't want to."

Every head in the room then turned towards Charlie, and she stared back at them like a deer in the high beams of an oncoming SUV. But it was the only unliving arrangement that Spike decided he would tolerate, and he silently willed her to comply.

"No! No way!" she said, shaking her head resolutely.

"Well, you are both vampires…" Anya began to reason.

"Then why isn't Angel taking him?" Charlie asked.

Spike didn't miss the quick glance that passed between the souled vampire and the slayer. Or the extremely annoyed one that Charlie sent to both of them. He grinned to himself before composing his features. _This_ , he could work to his advantage.

" _Angel_ is too busy shackin' up with Blondie, I'd wager," Spike answered her. "Would rather be playin' the role of paramour than vamp warden at the Motor Inn. Bit of a history between those two, yeah?"

"You've never met me before. I'd keep a lid on your theories, " Angel growled.

"And _you've_ never met the directions on the back of your tub of hair gel. That's the only lid you should be worried about keepin' shut, mate."

Buffy caught Angel's wrist as the vampire took a menacing step towards the couch. Spike barely restrained another smile. It was obvious that old Broodypant's hair could've landed itself a part as an extra on an oil spill wildlife documentary. Not quite as comedic as a sticky pelican, but still… the insult shouldn't have been a shocker.

"You know, on second thought, I'll take him." Charlie seemed to be having a difficult time suppressing the smirk on her lips.

"Thank god," Giles muttered, running a hand over his face.

"Just don't eat him, Charlie," Xander snorted.

"Oh, don't worry. If I do, it'll only be because I'm hungry and not really feeling like myself. I'll just mope about it for a while, and then you all will have to forgive me, right?" Her tone might have sounded airy and facetious, and she may have been looking at Xander, but Spike was certain the wrathful undertones were mostly meant for Angel.

The group was saved from having to reply when Willow came barging through the front door, a small crumpled paper bag gripped tightly in her hand.

Before the redhead had even finished closing the door, Charlie was on her feet. "Hey Giles, can I borrow a duffle bag? There's a bunch of extra clothes that might fit him at the crypt, and I'd like to be leaving about _yesterday_."

"Yes, of course. I think there's something in the hall closet," Rupert replied, vacating his chair and heading into the hallway. Charlie followed right behind him without so much as glancing at the newly arrived witch, who stared after her with a look of wistfulness.

Xander cleared his throat. "Is it me or did the temperature just drop into the negative, bitter digits of hostility?"

Dumping her backpack onto the carpet by the entranceway, Willow shook her head. "She's been weird around me the last few days. I don't get it. We were fine, and then we got into a fight after the night at the masquerade. I think she's still mad."

"Fight about what?" Buffy asked.

"That's just it!" Willow replied, flailing her arms. "It was a stupid, nothing fight. I can't even remember what started it, but she's still holding a grudge about the fact that I apparated us out of there. Like, hey, if she wanted to walk home _that_ badly, she could've just said something." She sighed, her gaze moving to Spike. "Oh, you must be the emergency in-serious-need-of-some-pain-management guy."

"Tell me there's more than an aspirin and a Band-Aid in that pint-sized pouch you're clutchin'," Spike groaned, eying the tiny bag with disdain.

"Way more. Much more effective too. I dabble with the magics, and I _think_ I can dull your pain down to almost nothing. Like getting stabbed by a toothpick instead of a…" she glanced at Spike's injury and swallowed audibly, "entire tree."

"She does more than dabble. S-She's really good," Tara informed him.

Of course, Spike already knew this, but he feigned a small amount of reluctance as he unbuttoned the bottom of his shirt. "Okay, Witchdoc. Have at it," he said, exposing a mess of ashen skin and damp, bloody bandages.

"Right. Let's see what we can do with a little cypress and goldenseal," Willow said, rubbing her hands together. She placed her hands lightly on top of Spike's chest and her hazel eyes shut as she concentrated. After a moment, her eyes snapped open again. "Hey… did you guys know that he's… um… not of the living?"

* * *

"You seem pretty mobile for a deadish… dead guy. I was sure I'd be carrying you to the crypt."

It was the first thing Charlie had said to him since they'd left the watcher's home. Her anger was simmering somewhere between low and medium heat, and Spike could see the resentfulness she was carrying in the stiff line of her body, as though the empty duffel slung over one shoulder was filled with her worldly burdens instead of merely air. Her displeasure wasn't directed at him though, that much he was sure of.

"Red did some mumbo jumbo 'fore you came back in the room," Spike explained, shuffling to keep up with her in his ruined dress shoes. "Said it'd help put me on the mend, but mostly it'll remedy the rackin' misery in my thorax. Don't really feel anythin' at the mo' but right knackered."

As Charlie hurried by a rowdy gaggle of teenagers, she glanced back at Spike, regarding him thoroughly enough to send a warm tingle flooding down his limbs. Spike was very aware of all the amorous, lusty feelings he had concerning her… wouldn't be such a stretch to think she was attracted to him. As he began to smile at her, she promptly turned her face away again, but seemed obliging enough to slow her pace to something more reasonable. "Yeah, well, gotta hand it to _Red_. No one's ever accused her of being ineffective at the witchy stuff," she said churlishly, crossing the street to the cemetery.

Spike scoffed. "Was beginnin' to think that I'd choke on all that bad blood floatin' around the room 'fore I dropped off from internal damage. Prolly for the best that you opted for a snappy exit."

"I came, I saw, I conversed enough to make it super awkward, and then I escaped into the night. It's my signature move. Lately, anyway."

"What'd the witch do to you anyway, to get your hackles up so high?" Spike asked, running a hand along the cold, iron spokes of the graveyard entrance gate. Familiar. So bloody familiar. He must've done this before.

Charlie kicked a bottle cap, and it bounced down the sidewalk and ricocheted off a tombstone. "It was just something that happened a few nights ago. She zapped us right out of Bleakgrave's masquerade when I didn't want to go."

"You were hopin' to stay for what? The last waltz? Another round of punch?"

"No! I just- I… I didn't want her making that decision for me, you know?" The vampire didn't even look convinced by her statement. "I guess you had to be there."

"Guess so."

They passed two more couples as the wind whipped down the rows of grave markers, loosening Charlie's updo into crashing waves of dark silk. With joyless eyes, she watched the pairs meander deeper into the burial ground. "Idiots," she muttered. "A few days without homicides or disappearances, and suddenly a nighttime stroll in the Sunnydale Cemetery is as safe as a picnic in a bank vault. What's Bleakgrave up to?"

"Might have a lead or two on that front," Spike acknowledged.

"Do you?" The shape of her mouth softened measurably. "Good. Save it for Giles, I guess."

When they finally reached the crypt, Charlie cautiously pushed the unlocked door open with her palm, holding as still as the mausoleum itself as she listened for sounds of intruders. Evidently hearing nothing, she motioned to Spike with a jerk of her head that it was safe to go inside. "Giles deemed it unsafe to stick around anywhere Bleakgrave or his cronies might know about," she told him, "so no Magic Box, no Slayer's house, and no crypt that Bleaks left me in. We can stay for a half hour or so, but then we need to hightail it out of here."

Spike let her lead him through the vacant upper crypt and down the ladder to the lower portion, eternally grateful for the spell that Willow had put on him which made it possible for him to descend without agony. As he waited at the foot of the ladder while Charlie hustled around the room, pulling candles from their lofty domiciles and stuffing them into her bag, he realized how effortlessly he could see without the aid of illumination. One more vampiric perk in a growing list.

"Nice digs," he said, surveying the darkened room. It was mostly as he'd pictured it in his mind, from the oriental rugs to the stacks of novels on the nightstand. The sheets had been stripped off the bed, however, leaving a threadbare, sad looking mattress in its stead.

"Thanks, but I can't really take the credit for it... just woke up as a vamp in here. This place came fully furnished and missing its previous occupant, so I decided to settle in and fully embrace the cliché. And, fortunately for you, Neo left his wardrobe rejects behind when he entered the Matrix, so there's about two drawerfuls you can choose from." She took an appraising look at him. "Weirdly enough, they might actually fit you."

Spike made his way to the antiquated dresser she was pointing to and opened the third drawer down, checking to make sure there was indeed sufficient attire. A satisfactory-sized bundle of ink-dark fabrics greeted him. Careful not to move too abruptly as he unbuttoned what was left of his dress shirt, he slipped the tattered remains off his shoulders and let it drop to the carpet, only noticing then that Charlie was staring at him with something that looked close to alarm.

"Needn't worry, luv. Looks like the devil but I don't think I can get any deader than I already am," he reassured her.

"No, it's not that, though it looks awful. It's just… I didn't tell you which drawer the leftover clothing was in, and you just went over there and opened it like… like you knew." Her face was beginning to set with shadows of distrust.

He'd chosen it purely by instinct, but thinking as to _why_ he chose it, Spike was positive that the top drawer was for her apocalypse-worthy stockpile of socks, the second housed her knickers and shirts, and the very bottom contained her trousers. That left drawers number three and four. He didn't need to open any of the others to know he was right, he just recognized it as fact.

He wanted to tell her… what? That he loved her? That her entire body was mapped out in his mind and he was sure he'd been intimate with her? One look at her mistrustful, penetrating eyes and his reply died on his lips.

"Lucky guess," was all he said.

* * *

 _A/N: Heya guys, how are you doing? Sorry for the long time between updates (On a cliffy too, I'm SO MEAN!). Your comments and follows and favs have spurred me on, however, along with the fact that I have a teensy bit more free time at the moment. Give me your guesses as to where Charlie's staying! Winner gets a bloodstained novelty mug that mysteriously appeared in the dumpster by Giles's apartment. :)_


	37. Chapter 37- Broken Record

Lyrics reverberated in Spike's head, transmitting from some repressed concert, a forgotten radio broadcast, possibly an unrecalled dive bar jukebox. Could've been from anywhere. _I feel your undercurrent flowing, submission going down, down._

With detached interest, he watched as streams of warm, muddy water trailed down his body, leaving narrow tracks of ivory skin behind. The ducts in the crypt shower growled the way a Ghora demon might, gulping down the swirling muck through its cavernous drain-mouth. He'd been standing underneath the pounding spray for a while, probably longer than Charlie wanted him to, but he refused to move until every trace of Bleakgrave's offenses were wiped from his flesh. His memories might be gone, and his injuries might take time to heal, but the rest of the physical evidence could be destroyed. Effective immediately.

Drizzling the remainder of an almost-empty bottle of amber body wash on his shoulders, Spike began sloughing off the rest of the dried grime that was clinging to him like lichen on a dead sapling. As he scrubbed ruthlessly with pink bath pouf, he didn't even notice how much the soap smelled like Charlie until the scent completely enveloped him, dense as a hot jungle mist. Cursing, he leaned back against the side of the shower and stared up at the corroded, rough-hewn pipes above, willing the stirring hardness between his legs to abate before she came looking to pull him out of the shower. The wash-up had been her idea anyway. No running water wherever they were going.

"Hey, Aquaman?" Charlie called from the doorway, as though she'd been summoned by his thoughts. "I don't mean to rush you, but seriously… two minutes and you need to be out. Bleakgrave doesn't seem like the type to hold off on the slaughter so you can lather, rinse, and repeat."

"Yeah, gettin' to it," he called back, seriously considering a quick, impassioned rendezvous with the remaining trickle of soapsuds and his left hand.

But haste seemed to be the catchword of the evening, and with a sigh, Spike twisted the knob all the way to the right and doused his hair in the glacial temperatures of the Sunnydale water supply. It didn't do much much for his stimulated condition, but once he'd shut off the faucet and stepped out of the shower, he managed to somewhat conceal his arousal with a wide knot in the scruffy towel she'd provided him with. Spike wasn't sure why exactly he was taking so much care to avoid displaying himself anyway. His physique was lean and well muscled, and there was tension of the sexual variety between them, wasn't there? He made the knot a little smaller and padded into the bedroom.

Charlie rose from the seat she'd made on the ladder rung, and Spike noticed that the duffle beside her was so full it wouldn't even zip closed. "Huh," she said.

He stopped in the center of the bedroom, water dripping a dark halo on the carpet around his feet. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "That all I get?"

"No, I mean... your hair… it's _really_ light. It was kinda brown before," she said, coming closer and squinting at the top of his head. Her eyes traveled downward, over the low slung terrycloth that hardly left anything to the imagination, and suddenly she was on the other side of the room and frantically rummaging through the fourth drawer of the dresser. "And pants… oh my god, pants."

Spike got the feeling that if she could blush, she would be. He watched with open amusement as she fumbled through the contents of the drawer.

"Hope you're not into a colorful wardrobe," she babbled in a rush, "I think the previous owner of all this stuff dove the Hot Topic dumpster every time they got new inventory. There's like one red button down, and everything else is assorted shades of charcoal with safety pin accents."

"Don't much care what it is, so long as it's in better shape than the togs I came in with."

"Ah, here… pants, shirt, belt." The stack of clothing was offered to him clutched in one hand, and Charlie's eyes were completely fixed on the exit opening in the ceiling.

"No need to act so puritan, luv," Spike purred, ignoring the attire she was holding. "Saw those looks you were shootin' me on the way over."

 _That_ earned him an indignant glance.

"Those _looks_? You mean the ones where I was making sure you weren't preparing to ingest the pedestrians?"

"Wasn't!" he protested.

"Good," she said simply, dumping the clothing into his arms. "Get dressed. We need to get out of here." With that, she heaved the bulky duffel over one shoulder and scurried up the ladder, giving him some privacy to get dressed.

Spike balled up the wet towel, flung it onto the mattress, and began examining the garb she'd left him with. Everything was soft and timeworn, as though it'd been in someone's wardrobe for years, if not decades. With a tired scowl, he shimmied the frayed, black jeans up his legs, zipped the fly, and buckled the belt.

Perfect fit.

 _Too perfect_ , Spike thought, noticing that the belt notch he was using was the only one that showed any signs of wear. That, and the worn away sections of the knees of the jeans seemed to mold to the exact dimensions of his kneecaps. The fit of the black t-shirt was uncanny, and when he laced up the dirty pair of Docs he'd found sticking out from under the bed like monster feet, he no longer deemed it a coincidence. The clothing was his.

Had he lived here? Intuition screamed yes, but wanting to be sure, Spike began to poke around. He wasn't positive what he was looking for, but perhaps a photograph. Or a name scribbled onto a fluttering scrap of paper. A letter that began with _If you're reading this, it's too late you sod, Memory Lane got paved into an empty parking lot._ Anything.

But aside from piles of salvaged household items and tools, eclectic novels and poetry texts, and a rather large compilation of punk rock LPs, there wasn't any concrete evidence to prove that Spike had ever resided in the crypt. He could hear Charlie beginning to pace anxiously above him, and with one last hurried scouring of the nightstand, he gave up the search.

He was about to head up the ladder, when on an impulse, he dug through the pockets of the discarded remains of his suit. Nothing in the pants, but the jacket held two metallic clues; a thin, silver key and a vintage zippo lighter. Spike pocketed the items and snatched a black leather duster that was hanging off a wall sconce before making his way topside.

* * *

Charlie refused to take sewers, grumbling something about onesies and snake skeletons, so instead, they stuck to dark side streets and back alleys. After twenty minutes of walking, just as the sky was just beginning to tinge a pale purple, she came to a halt in the middle of Crawford Street and nodded at their destination.

Spike stared at the building for a moment before directing his dubious glance at his chaperone. " _This_ is the discreet little hidey hole that nobody's gonna look thrice at?"

"What's wrong with it?"

Spike scrutinized it again, and ticked off the reasons in his head; the Big, Unsung Zero himself had roosted there, for starters. It had the capacity and prominence of a football stadium. Most of the drapes inside weren't large enough to cover the rows of school-bus-sized windows, and there was that ridiculous interior garden… of course, he couldn't get into any of the specifics without receiving the narrowed-eyes-and-third-degree treatment.

So instead, Spike merely squinted at the monstrous, cement cube structure. "Looks like a shrine to the game of Tetris, for fuck's sake. Who bloody built it, the Russians?"

"No idea." Charlie wrinkled her nose at the mansion, "It's not my Barbie Dream House either, but it was this or sharing walls with Guinevere and Laments-alot. I'd rather take a permanent nap in a tanning bed. And besides… this has a garden. On the _inside_."

"Oh, goodie, a room without a roof. Nice massive windows, too. Was hopin' there'd be multiple options for self-destruction."

"Alright, Mr. Magoo, I think it's past your bedtime. Entrance is up here," she said, beginning the hike up the steep driveway.

As it turned out, the word _entrance_ was used rather broadly… the doors were all locked tight, and every smashed window appeared to have been boarded up ages ago. Spike assumed that a low-profile break-and-enter would be easier said than done, but since Charlie had previously settled inside, there was a single unlatched window on the right side of the mansion that she'd left a few inches ajar. The window jambs caterwauled as she forced the sash above her head, allowing them entry into the living area. Spike stiffly climbed over the sill after her, and she shoved the window closed behind him. "This way," she said, readjusting her cumbersome bag and heading into the immense space.

The interior was recognizable, if not a touch shabbier than Spike had presumed. As expected, the ceiling seemed to tower for miles above, bolstered by crumbling walls that looked as though they'd been built with giant sized toddler block sets. He followed Charlie as she led him deeper into the shadows and echoing hallways of the mansion, unsettled by the almost nostalgic reaction he was having. Dark velvet drapes hung like bat wings from the windows and doorways, almost as numerous as the veneer of cobwebs that dangled from the unlit light fixtures.

They passed by the open French doors leading to what he knew was the garden, and Spike inhaled. Night-blooming jasmine. The cloying scent both frolicked and soured in his nostrils, and the leather of his coat creaked beneath his fingers as he tightened his grip on the cuffs. Irrational fury. Confused the hell out of him. Not an emotion he'd think to pair up with such a sweet, floral smell.

Crunching over shattered green pottery pieces (definitely Angel's doing), they turned down a short hall, and Charlie thrust aside some tattered drapery and entered a miniaturized version of the foyer. A deco-style bed frame and dusty dresser comprised the entirety of the furnishings in the space, which reeked of pot, paint fumes, and hormonal teenage miscreants. Various containers of food and drink, some filled, some not, were stacked by the foot of the bed, and Spike observed that the only redeeming feature was the presence of a mattress that had been wrapped in a clean-looking tangle of sheets.

"And this is the delightful spot where you've been hangin' your bonnet," he drawled.

"There's nothing I can hang that'll make up for this room's lack of charm, but yeah, I've spent most of the last few days here."

"Oh, don't scrub your hands of it yet, luv," Spike replied sarcastically. "Just needs some basic trappings. A shag carpet… lounge chair. A nice potpourri to get the aroma of piss out from the corner..."

"Sure," she said archly, pulling an armful of pillar candles out of her bag and methodically assembling them on top of the dresser. She struck a match against the cement wall, and began lighting the wicks. "I'll just mug a few townies and head on down to Bed Bath and Beyond My Means for a day of domestic goods shopping."

"Willy still bein' a wanker 'bout the job, then?" Spike asked without thinking.

Charlie froze long enough that the match burned down to her fingertips. With a curse, she shook out the flame, and dropped the stick to the floor. "Who told you about Willy's?"

Spike shrugged evasively, chastising himself for such a careless remark. "Someone must've. Know about it, don't I?"

"I guess." Silhouetted against the glow of the candlelight, she looked conflicted. "Anyway, let's get this other business out of the way. You, on your back, on the bed."

He didn't say anything, but there was no power in the universe that could have stopped the suggestive grin that spread over Spike's face.

"That was not- I'm talking about _bandages_ … ergh, just do it!" she commanded, hauling the bag back over her shoulder.

Complying with her demands, Spike toed off his boots and slid on top of the nest of unkempt sheets. He pushed himself up on his elbows, tracking her movements as she made her way towards him. "Thought you might be that kinda girl, all into the domineerin' roleplay bit," he grinned. "Any notions for what my safeword should be?"

"Imsorrydontstakeme has a nice ring to it."

"That all depends on where you plan on puttin' that stake, luv." Spike watched her face shift from slightly amused to definitely annoyed, and it was too late to rewind and start over.

 _Mayday, mayday, mayday._

"You know what… you're right," she said, dropping the duffle on the bed with a force that shook the innersprings like an earthquake. "I just love games. Wanna play one right now?"

Spike was fairly sure it was a trick question, but he was far too curious to heed the warning in her voice. "Depends. What'd you have in mind?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, uprooting a length of gauze from a medical kit and wrapping around her right hand as though it was piano wire, destined for his throat. "How 'bout I'll be the doctor, and you can be my dashing, injured patient."

Her words were exactly what he wanted to hear, her tone… not nearly. Still, there was something there, something in her eyes behind the exasperation, something that spoke of sex and need, burning like embers. "And what… exactly… would General Hospital: Doc Charlie entail?" Spike asked, licking his lips, and going for broke.

Her face became a cool mask, painted with a smile that bordered on icy. "So glad you asked. You're going to give me your address so I can send you a huge, unitemized bill, and then I'm gonna go to Willy's and find someone to play the part of Brad, the second year medical student who'll be taking care of you. Brad's still learning and no doubt a little drunk by now, but he's gotten so much better at inserting catheters. I'll come back to check on you when it's all over."

Spike decided to tone down his advances before did actually get himself staked, probably through the chest wound. "Right," he said, clearing his throat and laying flat on his back. "Maybe just a patch job, then. Give Brad the night off."

"A wise choice," she declared, busying herself with laying out bandages, adhesive, and a tin container with some sort of balm, as Spike gingerly lifted his shirt over his head.

Despite Charlie's clear annoyance at his advances, her hands were gentle, delicately cleansing off what little ash remained on his skin, and Spike did his best not to moan with contentment. He was glad Red's spell still seemed to be intact, blunting the sharpest portions of his pain but still letting him enjoy the pressure of Charlie's fingertips.

He noticed that she shivered every once in while, nostrils flaring, as she painted soothing ointment onto bits of his tender flesh. Her eyes avoided the bloodiest parts of him, and he wondered how long it'd been since she'd eaten. One of Harris's earlier comments had reminded Spike that she fed on demons, and he supposed that handling an entree on an empty stomach wasn't the easiest of tasks.

Much as he loved the idea of lying low with her, he had a brief flash of worry that he'd been hasty, jumping on the Charlie bandwagon without thinking of the repercussions ahead of time. But his senses told him that he could inherently trust her. And besides, he told himself, she showed every sign of having it under control- no vamping, no staring at his neck thirstily, no look of bloodlust in her eyes. If she wasn't dropping the reins with a full color menu laid out before her, he had nothing to fear. She wouldn't bite him.

"Thought vamps aren't so inclined to germs and the like," Spike said, after too much time had slipped away in silence. It wasn't really a question or a statement, as his brain was already fully versed in vampire biology, a detail which left him with more questions than answers. But he didn't want to pass up the opportunity for more conversation.

"True, we're not prone to infections," she replied. "But keeping your wound clean will help it mend faster, and there'll be less pain when the spell wears off. More blood will help too."

Spike looked down at the angry gash, and it seemed to glare back at him with malice. "Just want the mark gone."

She stopped her ministrations, wiping her fingers on a section of gauze and looking at him with genuine sympathy. "I know. Probably better than anyone. He hurt me too, before I died." She held his gaze for a moment, and then averted her eyes and began digging around for something in the medical kit. After a moment, she removed a fresh set of bandages and began adhering them to Spike's chest with a well-used roll of medical tape.

 _Drippy world. Cabin. Cold blue knife._ "What'd Bleaks do to you?" Spike asked, despite already having the subconscious cliff notes.

Hesitantly, she lifted the hem of her shirt, exposing a thin, silvery pink line that slashed down the right side of her abdomen. "Slice and dice," she said in explanation. Spike's eyes drifted from the scar to her navel, and then to the hazy ghosts of the tattoos that covered her flesh. Almost unconsciously, he reached out a hand and splayed it across her bare midsection.

The sensual shock of his hand against her skin was instantaneous, and Spike watched Charlie's eyes flutter at the sensation, her lips parting enticingly as she leaned into his touch. And then without warning, a heavy draft blew through the cracks in one of the boarded up windows, and the house creaked in loud, ornery protest. The noise startled Charlie out of whatever dreamy rapture she'd been in, and the moment was over as quickly as it had begun. She shifted away from him, tugging her shirt back down, and gathered up all of her supplies as though she hadn't felt a thing.

"I'll grab you some more blood in the morning, but you're starting to heal already," she said, refusing to meet Spike's perceptive gaze. "In the meantime, sleep. You need it."

"And what about you, luv? Looks like you've been missin' all your winks for a fortnight."

"I'm okay. I'll read or something."

"Oh, pull the other one, kitten," he said, as he watched her yawn into her fist.

"Fine, I'm tired," she admitted. "But someone should keep watch, and you need to rest more than I do. I'll just caffeinate now and power nap in the afternoon or something."

"Right," Spike said, blandly eyeballing a stale to-go cup of coffee that was dwelling on the floor beside her. He was sure that at least part of her determination to pull an all-nighter was to keep an eye on him. Rupert had probably been the one to warn her against dozing off without making sure that the hungry, hungry vampire was secure in the room. She couldn't really be all that worried about Bleakgrave finding their hideout; the mansion looked deserted on the outside, and condemned on the inside. It was unlikely anyone would be looking for them a dilapidated art deco nightmare.

"Well… g'night, then." Spike slipped under the covers and buried his face in one of the pillows. He let out a half groan, and rolled onto his back. Everything bloody smelled like her, and he wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not.

Beside him, Charlie pulled a book out from under the bed and settled her back against the headboard. "Goodnight," she replied softly.

* * *

It was as clear as the empty bottle of wine that Spike had been staring at for a half hour.

He would not be nodding off any time soon.

There had been hundreds of tallied sheep, precisely sixty-three cracks that split the wall in front of him, and the unthinking, delightful riffs of the Clash playing in Spike's head, and yet, at every cusp of blissful slumber, there was a dead-eyed magician piercing his body with skewers and laughing hysterically at his agony. Or perhaps the bigger problem was that he'd already spent the better part of the last week being unconscious. Either way, his brain just wasn't having it.

"You know, generally, one needs to do that eye-shutting thing if they're trying to sleep…" Charlie said, and Spike was a little startled to find her watching him.

"Can't," he sighed.

She put the battered copy of _Neverwhere_ she was reading facedown in her lap. "Do you want to talk about it? As the founding vampire of the Undead Against Bleakgrave club, I can hook you up with the pamphlets and complementary ballpoint pen if you'd like. I'm thinking of going with _Our Acronym Sucks and So Do We_ as our rallying cry."

"Don't need any namby-pamby support group, and I don't need a bloody shrink, luv. Last thing I want to dredge up is how Bleaks made me feel, since I plan on savin' all those sentiments for when I'm rippin' his soddin' head off."

"That's fine. I just figured since you're already in the reclining position, we could just take this bond we share one step further." The double meaning of her words struck her and she shut her eyes in consternation. "Therapy. I meant therapy. I will pay you to forget I just said that."

He smiled at her accidental insinuation, but the corners of his mouth didn't reach very high. "This what it's always like, bein' undead?" he asked.

"What, awful?" she proposed. "I don't know. It didn't seem so bad when I first got turned. Something felt off, but it was kind of like someone played a bad note during a piano piece and it sounded terrible for a second but it got better. But the last few days…" she paused, her eyes going cloudy and frown lines reappearing, "it feels like the whole song's being played in the wrong key and I just never noticed until now."

She looked up at him, and seemed to regain some of her composure. "It's not all bad… I mean the dying part blows, but the vamp part's sort of like getting a job promotion." She frowned again. "-that you didn't ask for. Or want. It's kind of empowering, terrifying, and no one seems to looks at you the same way once you've made the switch. But the good part is that the extra power can come in really handy."

"So you like it, then?"

"Let's not go crazy. I'm not so much _liking_ as _dealing_. It creeps me out how good blood tastes, and I'd kinda like to know if my hair looks as lackluster as I think it might."

"Your locks are gorgeous," he said, stifling the urge to thread his fingers through it. "Least you remember how you were, prolly filed away a couple snapshots. Can't even call to mind what my reflection looked like."

One of her eyebrows rose up in amusement. "You have almost fatal levels of confidence and self assurance. Any visual evidence to back it up, and I think you might spontaneously combust."

Spike's lips curved into a slow smile. "That so, pet?"

"Yeah, I'll be cleaning globs of you off the ceiling… what?" she asked, as Spike's grin grew wider.

"Find me dishy then, do you?"

"What? No! I meant…" Charlie cringed with embarrassment. "Shit. Fine… maybe. But just a little, don't let it go to your head. Anyways, maybe one of the Scoobies can take a photo of you tomorrow. Or Willow can enchant something shiny… "

"Could just describe me, you know, in lieu of polaroids and gleamin' magical doorknobs."

"Describe you?" Her gaze wandered all over him for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face. "What, like on a rap sheet? _Average height, lean build, use caution when approaching?"_

"Maybe more like… in a novel. Hero type."

"I dunno. Never seen a hero with the words _Punk's Not Dead_ tattooed across their forehead…"

"I bloody do not!" Spike declared, his hand flying to his forehead anyway. His fingers mapped along the lines of his brow and temples, searching for raised edges and evidence of permanent markings.

"Oh, don't worry! It looks fine. Great, even. It's very tasteful." Unable to keep a straight face, Charlie finally grinned. "Sorry, couldn't help it. You have a nice, un-inked forehead."

Spike mock-glared at her and dropped his hand back to his lap. "So, come on then, paint me a picture without the funny business, Charlie Girl. Bloke's gotta know what he's workin' with, doesn't he?"

Giving in to his request, she rotated herself so she was facing him, narrowing her eyes like she was critiquing a museum masterpiece. "Alright," she said, crossing her arms, "you have short hair… kind of curly, super blonde, almost white really, but it's not your natural color because your roots are growing in darker."

"You accusin' the carpet of clashin' with the drapes, luv?"

A twinkle of mischief lit up her face. "Something tells me that vinyl flooring and wide open blinds so the neighbors can see is more your style."

"Can't say I've given it as much thought as you seem to have," he observed with a grin.

"Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?"

"Vamps tend to go for the neck, don't they? But if you're feelin' adventurous..." he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. For a moment, he wondered what the fuck he was doing, ruthlessly hitting on the girl who was his only lifeline, but it seemed almost instinctual. He decided to dial back the innuendo before he ended up chained to the wall, and not in a fun way. "Keep on with the descriptives, don't leave me high and dry," he said, before she had a chance to respond to his flirtation.

"Okay. You have dark, heavy brows, and there's a y-shaped scar on your left, just at the arch. And um… blue eyes," she said, fidgeting with her shirtsleeves as she locked her gaze onto his own.

"Lake blue? Sky blue? Lotsa blues on the color wheel, luv."

"No, brighter. More like… like the blue part of a gas flame." She bit her lip, and Spike was certain that it was her tell, the sign when she was having lusty thoughts roaming around in her head. "And you have high cheekbones…. knifeblade sharp. A broad nose, pointed chin…"

"And my mouth?" he asked, one corner rising up in a smirk.

Her eyes rested on his lips. "Yeah, you have one."

"What does it look like?" he clarified, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

"Um…" she said softly, leaning in a little. She blinked twice and then pulled herself back. "It's fine. It's a normal, everyday mouth. Probably great for talking, and eating, and… look, it's getting late. You really should try to sleep again. We're supposed to go to that meeting in a few hours."

" _Supposed to?_ "

"I have half a mind to blow it off. I think I was better off on my own, and I'm not exactly a helpless mortal anymore."

Spike forced out a breath of air. He should've known. Nothing like a bit of tension in the ranks to have her thinking about… what? Heading off to deal with Bleakgrave by herself? It was bloody impulsive, stupid, suicidal, and it sounded exactly like something she'd do.

"You need them, luv," he said emphatically. "As much as they need you. Slayer has this nasty little streak of always winnin', doesn't she? Add in her team of Doddering Do-Rights and it's the best formula you've got for fryin' Bleaks like one of those battered onion things."

Charlie was deathly quiet while she took in his declaration. "There's just one tiny problem with your Essential Kitchen Wisdom, Julia," she finally said.

"What's that?" Spike asked.

"Nobody told you that Buffy's the slayer."

* * *

 _A/N: Lookit me, posting sooner than I have in a while! RKF wins the novelty mug by default (don't worry, Giles won't miss it), thanks to BarbyChan for reviewing, and a big, excited hello to all you favs and follows!_


	38. Chapter 38- Bad Blood

Spike was positively seething.

His lower half was still buried under crumpled sheets as he propped his skull against the headboard, straining to hear the sound of Charlie's boots clopping back towards the room. But the mansion only provided him with the soundtrack of absolute silence, crisp and unwelcome in his ears. When she returned he'd… he'd...

"Fuck," he snarled.

The previous night, by all accounts, should have gone completely pear shaped. Hell, it could've gone dust-mound shaped, given the stench of unease and distrust that rolled off Charlie like a heavy perfume. After the slayer's ridiculous name had accidentally gone cartwheeling off his tongue, Spike had admitted everything he knew. Well, not _everything_. But a lot. Enough. Alright, just the parts about how well he knew the slayer and her misfits, but the _point_ was that he'd put himself at risk. He'd opened his desperate mouth and confessed to Charlie that there was a distinct possibility that he'd been involved with the Scooby group, and it wasn't just his own memories that Bleakgrave had wiped speckless. It was probably theirs too.

And to his surprise, she had seemed to accept his admission without much hesitation. Sure, she'd asked a few questions, had gotten a little worked up over the fact that he hadn't mentioned it sooner. But he'd played it off as though his Scooby-flavored recollections were a late breaking occurrence, and it appeared that she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Spike went to sleep feeling both virtuous and relieved, gladdened that in the morning they could begin trying to sort out who he was.

Which was precisely why he was not expecting to wake up chained to the sodding bed frame.

Though Spike refused to give her any brownie points for it, Charlie had left a note on a giant sheet of memo paper, taped to his left manacle like some kind of hospital bracelet for a nearsighted convict. "Sorry," it read, "Back soon." The gesture did nothing more than torment his imagination as to where she'd gotten off to. Probably went to get the stake-wielding mob of slayer associates so they could shove him through the wringer again. Frustrated, Spike yanked at the chains until the bed frame started to bend and his wrists began to chafe, and then thought better of it. He had nowhere to go, and he wasn't about to leave her behind.

And so he sat, sulking and picking at the chipped black polish on his fingernails, waiting for her to return. With every minute that went by, he became more resentful. After an hour, he was furious. He would've expected the treatment from Rupert or Buffy, or that codswallop Xander. Not her. Never her.

Eventually he heard the scraping noise of the foyer window opening, shockingly harsh in the stillness of the rest of the house. A few more rage-inducing moments passed before she finally shoved aside the drapes and entered the room, a hefty plastic shopping bag looped over one of her arms. For several long seconds, all Spike could do was stare at her; at the creased jeans and rumpled lavender t-shirt, the slender hands that were twisting with the jittery nervousness that only came with over-caffeinating.

The aroma of sizzling grease tangled in the air with the candied scent of maple syrup, and it became clear to Spike that she'd been camped out in a diner, no doubt trying to keep her energy from plunging to rock bottom. Shuddering, he wondered just how many mugs of over-boiled coffee she would've had to chug down to appear that restless. Vampire metabolism burned up human food and drink like a crematory incinerator, hot and intensely fast. If she was still feeling the effects after a stroll back to the mansion...

Of course, Spike had meant to be glaring at her the whole time he was thinking those things, not sitting there gawking like some worried, lovesick sod. Not that she'd even noticed him looking at all.

Anxious exhaustion reigned on her face, with misery as its second in command, and when she finally met his eyes, he watched her soft lips press into a firm, decisive line. He could almost see the human girl she used to be slip away, evicted by the vampire that would do anything to strike at Bleakgrave. _That_ was her end game, he reminded himself. She wasn't swinging down the bell-rope to give him sanctuary because she actually cared about him.

"You're up," she said guardedly, seeming to want a reaction from him before she said anything more. And her tone was just blunt enough to piss Spike off all over again.

"No, not up. Point in fact, seem to be rather chained down. Don't really like bein' shackled to the furniture," he growled, giving her an angry, salacious leer, "'Less I'm stark-naked and plowin' into a ripe little-"

" _-Really_ don't need the visual."

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" he demanded.

"Let me boil this down for you, Mr. Kink-a-rama," she said, voice as sharp as the teeth that were beginning to peek past her lips. "You're a vampire. You're hungry. You needed the sleep, and the last thing _I_ need right now is to have to clean up an undead breakfast special because I didn't take precautions before I ran some errands. Hence your restraints."

Admittedly, she did have a point. Spike's stomach was rumbling like the Hellmouth, and had she not been there, his curiosity and appetite might have turned to exploring what the local cuisine had to offer. Provided he could find a way around that vexsome sunshine allergy, of course. But the crux of the matter was that she'd fettered him and left, as though he had no more worth than an undisciplined mutt, and it stung his ego something fierce.

She brandished a key from a back pocket and began treading carefully towards him, tensed as if she'd flee if he so much as twitched his forefinger. Spike went preternaturally still while she fit the key into the first latch, her bright green eyes locking with his once more before she twisted it. "If you want my trust, I suggest you let me know the next time the bells in your head start ringing. Agreed?"

"Bells, head. Got it," he grumbled reluctantly.

"And as to where I was," she said, unhinging one of his manacles, then the other, "I was getting something you'll want."

Spike rubbed at his liberated wrists. "Didn't know you could pick up basic courtesy at the local five-and-dime. Sell trial-sized versions, do they?"

"No, but if I see a little patience and understanding the next time I'm there, I'll be sure to fill the entire shopping cart for you," she retorted, but Spike was glad to see that she at least looked somewhat guilty. Her face made a subtle shift back to human, and she dipped a hand into her shopping bag to withdraw a clear plastic sac, labeled AB negative in boldface type. The liquid inside it was deep crimson and still radiating cold from whatever medical fridge she'd taken it from.

"Can't heat it, but it'll help you heal faster than with animal blood," she said, offering it to him. "This is a one time thing, though. It's Meat Market's finest from here on out. Breathe a word of this to anyone and it's the last meal you'll get. Ever."

He reached out to grasp the floppy bag, letting his own cool fingers stretch over hers before her hand jerked away and she was off to do some task, as far away from the bed as she could manage. With a silent curse, Spike turned his sights back to his new-gotten fare and examined it gingerly. Turning the bag back and forth in his palms, he watched the air bubbles inside sway with the changes in orientation. Human blood. The prime rib of plasma. Felt like there should be more formalities taken, like served in a silver goblet or a hollow, neck-shaped construction of chocolate and panna cotta if it couldn't be from the living, breathing source.

But given that there were no gilded chalices or master pastry chefs lurking about, nor was there so much as a dirty shotglass kicking around the room, Spike did the only thing that seemed appropriate. He raised the packet to his mouth, nicked the square corner of it with a pointed canine and sucked the blood onto his tongue. It streamed down his throat in a thick, heavenly deluge. Even chilled and tasting slightly of plastic and anti-coagulants, it was the most delectable thing he could remember tasting, and he moaned in loud appreciation.

Midway through a second groan of contentment, he noticed that Charlie was watching him with a expression of mild amusement. "Whatff?" he asked, barely taking his lips off the bag.

"Are you drinking that or impregnating it? The women's clinic doesn't do housecalls."

Christ, she was mouthy.

With a wicked gleam in his eye, he began to tongue the hole he'd made in the bag with explicit, lingering strokes, keeping his unfaltering gaze secured on her face. She watched him stoically for a moment, as though she were trying to prove something to herself, before a tiny shiver gave up her game of indifference. He stopped long enough to grin at her, and she scowled and turned around, shoving her hands into one of her open dresser drawers like there was a cash prize hidden at the bottom.

So maybe she wasn't writhing in pleasure underneath him yet, but Spike was sure he could easily keep her off balance, keep a handful of dirty little thoughts churning in her mind. Maybe he wouldn't have to wait too long for her to come around.

Once he'd drained the bag, Spike ripped the plastic open so he could lick the dregs off the inside, then stuffed the remnants into a bucket that was serving as the room's wastebasket. His entire body hummed with vitality, and he was sure that the tickling itch in his damaged skin meant that it was rapidly knitting itself back together. Hunger abated and mood vastly improved, Spike stood and stretched his muscles languidly.

"So now what? We hunker down and hash over how to snuff out Bleaks for good? Got a coupla' merry notions involvin' sledge hammers and railroad spikes."

"That's the general idea," she said, rolling a hair elastic onto her wrist and glancing at him once, as if to make sure his tongue was back where it was supposed to be. She shut the dresser drawer and then slowly made her way towards the doorway. "We're meeting up with the gang, so it's over the hills and through the streets, to a decrepit hotel we go."

"Takin' my two cents then? Good." Spike peered over at the boarded-up windows, noticing that there was still a bit of daylight leaking through the cracks. "Suppose you meant to say _under_ the hills and _through the sewers_?"

"A thousand sewage-filled buckets of nope. I've filled my quota for the day." She tossed him his coat and side stepped the drapes into the hallway. "Come on, we're getting some fresh air."

* * *

Running around in the daytime was a real treat.

The routine probably had it's own chapter in a self-harm book entitled _Seven Habits of Thoroughly Extinct Vampires,_ Spike decided. Sure, it might have been one of those rare, grey Sunnydale afternoons, where between the low afternoon sun and haze of clouds, they were able to set out for the motor inn with only the occasional need of awnings and trees for cover. But playing peek-a-boo roulette with the sunshine wasn't a quirk that he planned on adding to his traveling repertoire, no matter how often Charlie resorted to it. The top of his hand was still blistering from a split second of not paying attention to where he was walking.

And speaking of things on fire...

Spike patted his leather coat and withdrew a mashed cigarette out from one of the breast pockets. He molded the paper into a poor, lumpy imitation of its original form and stuck it between his lips, searing the end with a lick of flame from the zippo he'd found.

Beside him, Charlie arched an eyebrow. "What, you smoke now? Where'd you even get those?"

"Was a handful in the duster," he replied, releasing a puff of smoke into the breeze. "Calms the nerves a bit. Gonna be a problem, Charlie Girl?"

Her mouth quirked a little. "You know those things will kill you, right?"

Spike smiled at her joke, reveling in that impish smirk of hers, small as it was. In the filtered daylight, he found himself caught up in all the trivial details, his gaze flitting from lips, to speckled nose, to dark frill of lashes that looked as soft and thick as kitten fur. Her hair was wrapped into a simple twist at the nape of her neck, and she was still toting around that heavy shopping bag she'd had earlier.

Then Spike realized he'd been staring too long, and she was beginning to gravitate towards the far edge of the sidewalk. "What's that, then?" he asked, hoping to divert her attention. He inclined his head curiously towards her bag. It had the aroma of human cuisine, but then again, so did she.

"Bribery," she sighed.

"Bribery smells an awful lot like hash browns."

"And hash browns smell like my long-lost humanity. Actually, they're from the Sunnydale Diner, so they're probably evil potatoes that make you think of terrible things," she said, glaring at the triple load of styrofoam inside. " _Sinister spuds_."

"Yeah, I'm sure starch is real high up on Sunnyhell's most dangerous list," Spike snorted. "You need to stop thinkin' so much 'bout your way back when, pet. Tune it out for a while, you'll feel better for it."

"Says the guy that can't remember his way back _anything_. No wonder you're adjusting to being undead so quickly."

"Thought I was human when I stumbled into Watcher's abode," he reminded her. "Not sayin' that findin' out wasn't a bit of a curve ball."

"So what's your secret?" she asked. "How are you tolerating it so easily?"

"The trick? The thing that worked like a bloody talisman?" He leaned in close enough that he could've licked the tantalizing little dip just below her ear if he wanted to. And god help him, he wanted to. " _I got over it._ "

"Yeah, well I don't really get over things," she huffed, ducking away from him. "I sort of... puddle underneath them like spilled apple juice and dry into a permanently sticky residue."

"Noticed," Spike muttered, as she walked on ahead of him. It was almost unbearable. He wanted to nibble along her jawline, chase her thoughts away with lips and tongue and teeth. His fingers ached to twist themselves through her hair. He wanted to shove her into the shadowy alleyway they were passing, rip apart the pretty cotton panties he knew she was wearing, bury his face between her thighs. He _wanted_ in a way that no amount of human blood, no wank in a cold shower could sate, and he wasn't sure if she'd fuck him or just fucking kill him if he acted on his impulses.

"Hey... I think that's the motor inn," Charlie said, interrupting his thoughts. She slowed her pace and pointed to a long, squat building a short ways up the street. A stuttering neon sign in front of it promised vacancies and a pool, which seemed more of a threat than a tempting offer given the building's outward appearance.

Spike's eyes roamed over the motel's bushes, which had grown into wild, crashing sprays of green foliage, and the condensation from the multitude of window air conditioners that tinted lines down the building's facade like the tear stains of tenants past. Even the parking lot was more rubble than solid pavement. "Well," he quipped, "always wondered what _underneath_ the bottom of the barrel looked like."

"Now you know. And they say that knowing is half the battle," she reasoned. "Hopefully the other half involves a bulldozer and a wrecking ball."

Side by side, they drew near the glassed-in manager's office, where a man in a grubby, sleeveless shirt lounged in front of a cork board that was jam-packed with room keys. His hand was grounded in a bowl of peppermints, and he was riveted to a sporting event on an ancient, black and white television set. As they ambled past, the man turned up the volume of the game, presumably to drown out the noise of the telephone that was ringing by his elbow.

Charlie looked impressed. "Wow. He's really putting some effort into this neglect thing."

"Yeah, it's bloody commendable," Spike said, halting at the first stairwell and peering at the directory plaque. "Which room is the slayer bunked up in?"

"Lucky number thirteen."

"Straight ahead then."

They traipsed along the cement walkway, passing all the lower number units until they reached the slayer's room at the very end of the building. The window blinds were drawn tight, and Charlie waited until a maid had rolled her cart by before she gave the door a tentative knock. Spike took a last pull from his cigarette and sent it flying towards room twelve.

"Who's there?" A tired, masculine voice called from within.

"It's Charlie."

The door was thrown open and Giles ushered both the vampires inside, cautiously glancing back and forth outside before shutting it again. The rest of the gang was already there, with books cracked, notebooks open, and sitting in one of those touchy-feely group circles on the dingy olive carpet. Most of them looked up, observing the newcomers with uncomfortable, embarrassed silence, as though vampires had been the topic of discussion just moments before.

Determined to play it as cool and aloof as he could, Spike paid them no mind and sat himself at the end of one of the unmade double beds. He studied the peeling wallpaper, eyes drifting to the framed painting of barking English Setters that dangled in the middle of the wall, as though the room was some sort of hunting retreat for the down and out. Clearly, the crumbling, stinking eyesore of a mansion was preferable. By a long shot.

"It's got kind of a post-crime-scene Bates Motel sorta feel," Xander said, catching Charlie's identical grimace as she stood by the doorway. "But the shower curtain doesn't look all stabbed, and the guy who runs the place is named Larry, so I think we'll be okay."

"I didn't see mummy dearest in the check-in office," Charlie agreed. "Not that the manager would notice with his eyeballs glued to the local sports channel."

"Yeah, it's weird times. Our old high school team is close to becoming state football champions. That hasn't happened since… ever."

Buffy groaned. "Don't remind me. Dawn's so upset that she has to stay out of town. If they win and she misses the championship celebration, _I will never hear the end of it_."

"On the bright side, if Bleakgrave kills us all, you won't have to hear _any_ of it," Xander told her.

Willow smacked him on the arm. "Pipe down, Silver Lining Guy."

The smalltalk didn't seem to alleviate much of the tension in Charlie's posture, but Spike noticed that she at least stopped looking like she wanted to bolt out the door at the first available opportunity. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her bag and she closed the distance to the group, plunking the boxes of food in the middle of their circle.

"And to what do we owe the Mount Everest pile of takeout?" the slayer asked, looking mildly startled by the syrup-splattered container in front of her. "Not that I'm complaining…"

"I don't want our issues getting in the way of dealing with Bleakgrave," Charlie explained tersely, handing out the plasticware and flattened paper plates that had been jammed in the bottom of the bag. "I haven't been the easiest person to be around lately, but I know that we need to work as a team if we want to take him down. So for now, I'd like to bury the hatchet."

"In someone's ribcage or did you mean that proverbially? 'Cause your face still kinda says ribs…" Xander pointed out.

"Sorry. Still working on that."

The slayer nodded, "Good." Her eyes widened at the heaps of biscuits, potatoes, and scrambled eggs that Tara had uncovered.

"Ooo!" Willow exclaimed, opening the last box. "And you got waffles! I like 'em cause they're just like pancakes but with abdominals." She gave Charlie a happy grin, and the vampire returned it with a subdued but genuine smile.

"So how's Amneso-vamp today?" Buffy asked, shoveling a helping of eggs onto her plate and directing her attention to Spike. "Remember anything?"

About to take a bite of fried potatoes, Xander paused and did a double-take at the top of Spike's head. "Wow. Are we sure it's amnesia and not peroxide poisoning?"

"You know, he's quite attractive now, without all the mud and ashes, and the large injury that was leaking blood all over Giles's couch…" Anya decided. She leaned back on her hands, and her eyes slid over him, lingering not-so-subtlety between where his thumbs were tucked into his front jean pockets.

Charlie barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "Yeah, well, maybe he's born with it, maybe it's hygiene. There've been some… developments, actually."

Giles pulled a wooden chair out from a desk for Charlie and settled himself in a lumpy, plaid recliner. "Indeed? Do tell."

"He knows us. All of us," Charlie said carefully, sitting down. "And he thinks it might be a little more complicated than just his memory missing."

"How so?"

Spike braced himself for the big reveal, and hoped to the unholy saint of wayward vampires that he wouldn't be dusted for it. "Know all of you like we spent a few years in the slayer's version of Stakeward Bound, the unedible journey," he replied. "Doesn't make a lick of sense, 'less Bleaks ripped it all out from under us."

"So you think we were friends?" Willow asked him, glancing at Buffy. The dubious look that passed between the two girls spoke volumes.

Spike turned the thought of friendship over in his head. He didn't harbor many positive feelings about any of them, aside from Charlie. Teen Witch and her girlfriend were mostly alright in his book, but everyone else seemed to be a source of major irritation. Friends? No, definitely not friends.

"Somethin' like that," Spike replied noncommittally.

"I'm not buying it. Bleakgrave might be powerful, but he can't just erase pieces of everyone's memory with the snap of his fingers," Angel protested. He looked to Giles for reassurance. "He can't, right?"

Giles removed his glasses and rubbed his face. "I.. I- I'm not sure. It doesn't seem likely. At least, I've never read of a magician or warlock being able to perform such a spell on merely a whim. But while it may seem impossible, the impossible has a habit of occurring rather frequently in Sunnydale."

"So why don't we just let the vamp put _the impossible_ where his mouth is? If you know us so well, then tell us, Chlorox, who are we?" Xander challenged.

Impulsively, Spike wanted to lay the truth on them with the brutality of a backhoe dumping mud into a mass grave. But as was his wont of the past two days, self preservation was the thing that kept him from completely unleashing his mouth.

"Goldilocks is the slayer. Giles is her watcher," Spike recited. "The rest of you whitehats stick 'round like limpets, protectin' babies and group hugs or what-have-you from the Big Bads and evils of the world."

"I don't think that confirms anything." Willow was frowning, running her finger back and forth on the metal spine of a notebook. "All you'd have to know is that Buffy's the slayer, and you could figure out the rest with some very basic deductive reasoning," she pointed out.

Spike leered at her. "Know you had the hots for Harris at one point."

The witch's cheeks could've replaced the flags at a bullfight.

"I think the vampire's lying!" Anya cried, before anyone else could verbally respond. "He's a lying liar. That never happened and even if it did it wouldn't have meant anything but it it didn't. Happen, that is. Liar."

"I'm tellin' you, I was part of this soddin' circle!" Spike objected.

"If you can't prove it, you're useless," Angel scoffed, reaching for a book on European occult that was lying crookedly near his foot. "Personally, I think you're a waste of time."

Spike could actually hear the noise his self-control made as it snapped in half.

"Fine, let's start with you, Peaches. You're the big strappin' hero, used to go by the name of Angelus. You've got that perpetual knitted brow, an unreasonable quantity of white tank tops, an' you get sexually aroused by misery and self denial... I'd tell you more, but I'd be bored." Spike tilted his head towards Buffy. "Though I am wonderin' 'bout this new development between you and the slayer. Thought _that_ Titanic pulled out of port years ago."

"Not that it's _any_ of your business, but we're not together. And actually, I really don't think we need to hear any more of this…" Buffy was gripping her plastic fork so hard that her knuckles were turning white.

"No, this is actually hilar-… very important," Xander insisted. He grinned at Spike. "Do Giles."

Spike shrugged and stood, circling around the group like a shark going in for the kill. "Watcher can be found lurkin' in the back of the Magic Box, tenderly strokin' the Pergamum Codex and longin' for the days when he had an actual purpose. What's it been, Rupes? A year since the wanker's council threw you the axe?" Giles was giving him a look so squinty that Spike wondered if the man's neurons were exploding.

"You have the Codex?" Anya asked, directing her query at an increasingly indignant Giles. "Why isn't on the shelf where the customers can get to it?"

The watcher stuffed half a biscuit into his mouth.

"And then we've got Demon Girl," Spike drawled. "Got booted out of Vengeance Club, didn't you? No one ever really knows what you're blatherin' on about, and I'd wager you dry-hump the cashbox when the store's locked up."

At first, Anya looked as though she might protest, but instead she merely shrugged like the description was accurate and didn't bother her in the least. Her boyfriend, however, took offense. "On second thought, you can be done now," Xander demanded, aiming a belligerent stink-eye at Spike.

"No, no," the watcher contradicted, taking a moment to slather a thick coating of raspberry jam onto the second half of his biscuit. "I agree with your previous statement that this is extremely important." Giles raised his eyebrows at Spike. "I don't suppose you have thoughts on Xan… anyone else?"

Spike smirked at the older man's pettiness. So typical. "Oh, well, Harris is practically _defined_ by his lack of real talent. There was that one time he joined the tin soldiers on a mojo-infested All Hallow's Eve, which sadly for him, was as short-lived as every one of his employment opportunities. It's the only bit of usefulness that he can dip into, and boy, is the well startin' to run dry."

Xander's eyes burned like twin coals, smoldering with the fires of deep animosity. "I'll have you know, there are plenty of things that I bring to this group."

"Yeah. Pepperoni and double cheese, is it?"

"Are you finished?" Charlie asked. Her hand had crept up to cover half her face, as though she had just witnessed a horrific and extremely fatal traffic accident. Idly, Spike wondered if she was merely concerned for her friends' feelings, or if her worry was more directed towards his fate. It had grown very quiet in the motel room, except for the clamor of six heartbeats that were galloping like a pack of angry kungai demons.

"Maybe," Spike looked from watcher to slayer to Scoobies, "Anyone else feelin' unconvinced?"

"I feel like staking you if you keep talking. Does that count?" Buffy asked sweetly, her voice like strawberry wine laced with cyanide.

"I think what she means is that you said a lot of hostile, rude, accurate things, and we don't need to hear any more," Anya clarified.

"Brilliant," Spike said, flashing a grin at Charlie. Her hand returned to her lap, but she didn't look any less unsettled. "Yeah, I'm done."

The silence festered in the room for a few moments before Angel spoke up. "Fine, so I guess we're assuming that he _is_ somehow connected to us, though I'm starting to think that Bleakgrave actually did us a favor. But we still have no idea how or why this happened."

"As wiggsome as the whole idea of someone pulling a Nixon editing job on our memories is, I think it's more important that we figure out what Bleakgrave is planning," Buffy suggested. "It's been All Quiet on the Warlock Front for the past few days, but we know he's planning something big, and whatever it is, it's happening tomorrow."

"So, what do you know, Bleach Boy?" Xander asked, folding his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes at Spike. "What are Bleakgrave's big, evil plans?"

Spike cleared his throat and sat back down on the bed. _Finally,_ they were beginning to break through that wall of distrust. "Well, 'fore I left, that bloke Hodges told me to look out for the… what's-it-called… oh, yeah, the _Pluto Personnel_."

Unblinking, the Scoobies stared at Spike. Spike stared back at them.

" _And?_ Who are they?" the slayer asked impatiently.

"Don't know. Got all noisy at the palace, and then little Jeeves went sprintin' off like he had a nasty case of the backdoor trots."

"That's everything you have?" Buffy's jaw went stiff. "One name? Is there another part to that, like a copy of Bleakgrave's evil plan playbook or a location or _some way to defeat him_?"

"Hey! I was a tad too busy gettin' my innards roasted to play Harriet the bloody spy, Slayer," Spike declared. "One name is better than the great towerin' piles of nothin' you've got."

"What could they be?" Tara wondered aloud. Spike noticed that she'd torn half her paper plate into a pile of white confetti. Wasn't a good sign when the witches were nervous. "And why would they c-call themselves the Pluto Personnel?"

"Maybe Evil Cartoon Dog Workforce didn't fit on the ID cards," Willow suggested lightly, giving her girlfriend's hand a comforting squeeze.

"You think Disney's behind this?" Anya asked, her expression darkening. "Those bastards."

Out of the corner of Spike's eye, he could see that the watcher had turned into a fidgeting bundle of nerves. The man kept glancing at the door, his fingers squeezing the cuff of his discarded jacket like he was about to snatch it up and run off.

"Uh-oh, Giles," Buffy said, also noticing the watcher's agitation. "What's that look? I know that look. That's not a look I like."

"It's just that the name sounds very familiar. Tip of my tongue, really. I think I might have a reference or two back at my apartment…" Giles stood abruptly, resolutely sliding his arms into his jacket sleeves.

"Should someone go with-" she began.

"No, everyone should stay here. I shan't be more than an hour."

Worry flickered over the slayer's face, but whatever her concerns were, she seemed resigned to listen to her watcher. "What should we do while you're getting your books?"

"Try to figure out who he is, I suppose," Giles replied, gesturing in Spike's direction. "There must be a good reason why Bleakgrave erased his existence. Perhaps he knew too much?"

"I'll say," Willow muttered.

The man ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Come up with some theories while I'm gone, and I'll be back as quickly as I can."

"Be careful, Giles," Buffy said quietly.

The watcher nodded once, gave them all a tight smile, and then he was gone.

* * *

Within forty-five minutes, there were two notebook pages crammed with theories, three emptied take-out containers, and one slayer who looked ready to stab the next person who made a questionable hypothesis. Spike warily eyed the pencil she was holding. It wasn't particularly sharp, but it was wooden, and certainly capable of piercing a ventricle or two if she put enough force behind it. He scooted himself a few inches further away from her, just to be safe.

"I'm throwing in the towel," Buffy said glumly, slumping forward and pressing her hands against her cheeks. "And my future as a private eye. This isn't working."

"Sure it is," Willow encouraged her. "We just need to keep generating ideas, and eventually we'll get to one that... ya know… sounds plausible."

Buffy shook her head and dropped her pencil. Spike casually reached over and rolled it out of her reach. "We're not anywhere near plausible," she moaned. "We're not even within driving distance. We're a hundred miles outside the country of plausible surrounded by barbed wire fences and strict, armed plausible border patrol."

Anya held up the spiral notebook they'd been using, her eyes darting back and forth as she studied the list. "Well some of these… aren't too bad."

The slayer snatched it out of the ex-vengeance demon's hands and began reading the first page aloud. "Brainwashed Billy Idol impersonator. Rogue watcher. Too-old foreign exchange student who went to the wrong house party. Giles's hot nephew." She let the notebook flop into her lap. "I rest my case."

"What about mine?" Spike asked, noticing that she'd crossed it out.

"You're not the lead singer of the Ramones."

"Don't know that," he argued. "Bleaks could've replaced me with some cheap impostor. Not like any of you would know the difference with the rot you listen to."

Charlie leaned over Buffy's shoulder. "Well, your handwriting looks like a failed sobriety test, so it's more likely that you were a doct-"

Charlie fell quiet and everyone looked up at the sound of the room key turning in the lock, watching with alarm as a flustered watcher came barreling through the door. He had an old tome cradled in his arms, as though it were some leathery, rectangular newborn. Spike assumed it was basically the same thing, so far as Rupert was concerned.

"Giles?" Willow asked, her eyes widening. "Are you alright?"

"Yes… no, not exactly. No, none of us are alright," the man said breathlessly, shutting the door behind him.

"What do you m-"

"-It's not the Pluto Personnel," the watcher interrupted. He placed the book on the desk, and wiped a shaking hand over his sweaty brow. "It's _Pluto's Parallel_. And believe me when I say that we are in a trouble worse than we've ever known before."


	39. Chapter 39- Flicker

"Go through it one more time." The slayer's voice still held a commanding, sober edge, but after an hour or so of bouncing between quiet research and intense discussion, it was now infused with a heavy dose of fatigue.

Spike glanced up from the book on magical french artifacts he'd been inattentively skimming through. At this point _, any_ diversion was a welcome one. Getting tortured by Bleakgrave again would even suffice; at least it'd be some semblance of interesting.

The juvenile little floor-circle had long since disbanded, and tension now swelled around the motel room like water about to boil. The ex vengeance demon was pacing, tapping her fingers restlessly against her arm and completely oblivious to Giles's growing irritation with her unwillingness to sit down. Charlie and the lover-wiccas were hunched over books on defensive spells on the bed opposite Spike, and even Harris seemed to be taking the research seriously. The boy was actually taking notes, as if there was going to be a written exam at the conclusion of the Bleakgrave debacle, rather than a bloody, all-out massacre.

Sighing, Giles picked up the old leather volume again and turned to the page he'd bookmarked. "Pluto's Parallel refers to a dark ritual in which power is sacrificed in order for it to be gained. It's recorded as being used as far back as 27 A.D., and I believe as recently as 1986, with varying degrees of success."

"Oh!" Willow exclaimed, her head snapping up. "It's a kind of thaumoisos!"

"Thom a what-sis?" Angel asked.

"I couldn't remember what it was called until now," Willow responded, placing her book aside. "Giving one magical energy to get another is the process of thaumoisos. It means the balance of magics. Like, I give you a present, you give me one in return. But with power, instead of… presents."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Buffy said, her tone brightening considerably. "Maybe it'll be like a magician's holiday gift swap."

"Yes, with such previous celebrations as Pompeii, Chernobyl, and the Fidenae disaster, a splendid time is sure to be had by all," the watcher scoffed. "It's even rumored that the disappearance of Atlantis was caused by this particular ritual."

The slayer's hopeful expression sagged like the mattress Spike was sitting on. "So more like a really bad holiday gift swap where the venue sucks and everyone dies horribly."

Xander scratched his head. "I still don't understand why it's called Pluto's Parallel. What does it have to do with dogs?"

"No, not the dog. Pluto, the Roman god of the underworld," Willow told him, looking at the watcher for confirmation. "It's soul magic. Death magic, right?"

Giles nodded.

The slayer made a strangled sound at the back of her throat. "What _is_ it with this guy and souls? Just once, I want to fight a Big Bad who takes people's belly button lint. Or like, saliva. It's always with the blood and the souls and the horror..." She let out a loud, frustrated breath. "So is this going to be like the supersized version of the soul ritual he's been doing all along? And simple it up this time, Giles. This marathon research party has been hopping since ten AM, and Buffy's brain o'meter is steadily dropping towards no-level functions."

Giles pulled his glasses off and laid them on top of the book's open pages, rubbing between his brows as if the act of simplifying his words physically pained him. "No, not exactly the same version. It's difficult to perform, but the caster needs to open a portal and then, basically, the ah, offerings, are thrown right into it. Once the ritual is complete, the power is gifted back to the caster in the form of magical energy, distilled to its purest essence."

"And when you say offerings," Xander said, nervously clicking his pen, "why do I get the feeling you don't mean frankincense or a couple of crisp, one dollar bills?"

"Yes, well, traditionally, a human life and their accompanying soul is one of the most valuable things that can be offered."

"But P-pompeii was a volcano," Tara pointed out. "And Chernobyl was a nuclear accident, not giant, swirly vortex that people dis-disappeared into."

Spike tossed his boring research book into the "done" pile on the floor, ignoring the horrified look Giles gave him. "Any berk that's willin' to immolate a few thousand toga-clad Romans wouldn't bat an eye at makin' it look like an act of fire and brimstone."

Xander looked completely baffled. "Whatting the what-clad what-ans?"

"He means that it really wouldn't be a problem to cover it up if you were an evil magician with unlimited power," Willow translated, following with Spike's line of thinking. "It would take a thimbleful of magic for Bleakgrave to brainwash a few news reporters or make it look like an explosion or something. Hell, _I_ could totally…" Willow paused as the others looked at her with mild unease, "...go for a coffee right about now. Anyone else want one?"

"But thousands of people?" Buffy asked, "I mean, Bleakgrave is a murderer, but would he really stoop so far as to kill that many innocents? That's… germicide."

Willow's auburn eyebrows drew together. "The killing of innocent microorganisms?"

"Huh?"

" _Geno_ …" Giles began, then shook his head. "Oh, nevermind."

"Are we talking about the same magician?" Charlie asked, scowling at the slayer. "Of course Bleakgrave _would_ kill thousands of people, because he's evil. And every time you think his evilness can't possibly sink to any lower level, there's an evil basement, an underground garage, and then a secret, evil bunker hanging out a couple stories down!"

"It does makes sense," Angel reasoned. "He wanted to keep the Sunnydale demons away from the humans all this week, right? It must be to bulk up the numbers, make them feel safe. He'll get them all in one, localized area, and then set off the deadly portal."

The slayer seemed to accept both the vampires' logic. "Then the big question is, _where_ is he planning to make this deadly portal?" she wondered.

"The mall?" Anya suggested. "Or maybe the college campus?"

"There's no way of knowing," Giles replied, taking a thoughtful glance at Spike. "Unless… could you get in contact with Hodges again?"

Spike shrugged. Taking a hike back up to Bleakgrave's palace didn't exactly sit well with him, despite the fact that there was a substantial lack of options. But even though he wasn't charmed by the idea, he certainly didn't intend to be a coward about it. "Could give it a shot," he offered. "Not like little Jeeves left me with his callin' card though. Have to tarry by Bleak's place for a bit, see if he turns up."

"I'm not sure it's a good plan to get anywhere near the magician that's been trying to kill us before we absolutely have to," Buffy remarked.

"They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Willow suggested impishly. "Since Bleakgrave's already tried a bunch of times, maybe we now have the strength and stamina to beat him before he unleashes the Pluto spell."

Xander snorted, "If that saying was true, we'd all be able to bench press a school bus by now. One handed."

"Yeah, and what if the thing that's trying to kill you cuts off your legs? I don't think you'd be stronger, I think you'd be legless," Anya said, matter of factly. "And probably sad."

"Can I point out that the thing that's trying to kill us _did_ , in fact, kill me?" Charlie added.

"Hey, guys, let's be positive about this. We can beat him," Angel said, far too good-naturedly for Spike's liking. The dark-haired vampire stood up from his chair and placed a hand on the slayer's shoulder, as though he were Buffy's unspoken second in command. "We just need to explore all the avenues…"

"Why don't _you_ go explore all the bleedin' avenues…" Spike muttered. He glanced over at Charlie and was pleased to catch her lips twisting briefly upwards at his snark. One point to him, zero for Peaches.

"Seems like good advice," Xander said, slapping his notebook shut and dragging his body up off the carpet.

Buffy gaped up at him. "Where are you going?"

"Over here to check out this oddly-stuffed, but surprisingly comfortable looking chair and this prehistoric tv remote." The easy chair creaked resentfully as the boy sank into it.

"And I'm sure your new investigation has nothing to do with the high school football game that's probably almost over." Willow smiled knowingly as television set flicked on.

"Hey! This could be history in the making! Tales of the Sunnydale Razorback's underdog victory will be told far and wide for centuries!"

"Yes, as a small paragraph in the report on why no one bothered to stop the complete annihilation of Sunnydale," Giles quipped dryly, though everyone else was too busy watching the television screen to hear him.

" _... And there you have it folks,"_ the perfectly coiffed newsman was saying, " _the Sunnydale Razorbacks have won the California State Championships, beating the East Valley Thunderbirds in a record-smashing 357 to 0 points! Not only is this is the first championship win for the Razorbacks, this is the first time they've made it to the playoffs. It's also the first time that they've won more than two consecutive games, largely due to high player mortality, poor training schedules, and the disappearance of numerous coaches and assistants at Sunnydale High over the last few decades…"_

"Wow. All these years I thought that the Razorbacks were of the points-challenged variety," Buffy said, an ironic laugh leaving her throat. "What kind of magic spell do you think _they_ had to perform to…" the slayer's voice trailed off and a look of dismay crossed her face. "Oh. Oh, no. You don't think it had anything to do with…"

" _... and all of this culminates with the Championship celebration of course! All of Sunnydale will be turning out tomorrow night at the high school football field! There'll be fireworks, a parade, an award ceremony, and one_ _very_ _special guest to entertain us all!"_

"Tomorrow. High school. Hellmouth. Easy-peasy access portal," Buffy said quietly. "The special guest is going to entertain the crowd and then throw them all through a portal to hell as his grand finale."

"Dear lord," murmured Giles, putting his glasses back on and blinking owlishly at the video montage of the Sunnydale High football field. "Of course, the hellmouth."

Xander shut the television off and glared at the blank screen. "I should've known their winning streak was too good to be true. Dammit!"

"So what do we do?" Tara asked, her eyes moving from Willow to Giles, and then finally to Buffy. "Attack Versailles early tomorrow, b-b-before he has a chance to h-hurt anyone?"

"No," the slayer replied, shaking her head. "We lose three of our number if we try to go on the offensive in the daylight. And we still need time to prepare, so tonight's out of the question too."

"Actually, I believe it might be better to hold off on attacking until the celebration," Giles said carefully. "If we can get the attendees out, just as he begins the spell… that's when he should be at his weakest. He'll need to concentrate, and all of his magical energies will be draining while he tries to open the portal."

"Good. And that'll free us up to fight whatever demons he's invited for backup. I have a feeling it's going to be a heavy turnout." Buffy looked to the girls on the bed. "So what can we do about Bleakgrave?"

"Well," Willow said, running her fingers along her bottom lip, "I'll need a few supplies, but there's one incantation, which, between Giles and us three magically inclined, might be able to stop him." She dug through a heap of texts by her knee and pulled out a small red one. "Here, Charlie, take this copy to study tonight, page 342. I've got my own at home."

Charlie took the proffered book and cradled it loosely in her lap. "I'm glad there's a plan, but I'm low on the whammy right now, and taking blood magic from you or Tara would be pointless if we're doing the spell together. I'm not sure how much help I'll be."

"Don't worry. I've got a plan on that front, too," Willow said cryptically. Charlie eyed her with a puzzled expression, but either didn't want to know or didn't care enough to ask what she was planning. Spike suspected the former.

"Okay," Buffy agreed with a sense of finality, and Spike could feel the tension in the air expand, thick and vibrating with pre-battle jitters. It felt as familiar to him as the coat draped over his shoulders.

"We'll meet at the Magic Box," the slayer continued, "tomorrow evening at six. I'm assuming that Bleakgrave will be too busy preparing for his spell to cause us any trouble tonight. Still, Angel and I will do a quick patrol, just in case any of our usual demons get a little trigger happy. Get some rest, guys. Tomorrow night, we end this."

The meeting dismissed, Xander and Tara began collecting research books from around the room, and Willow shuffled over to Giles, conferring with him in hushed tones. Unsure of what to do, Spike glanced over to Charlie. She was giving the cover of her magic book a quick once-over, but caught his eye when she looked up. She inclined her head towards the door to the parking lot, and he nodded enthusiastically.

"I don't like this," Anya announced suddenly, just as Spike was three steps and one doorknob away from freedom. "Why don't we leave and find a new place to live?"

Charlie's hand paused on the dead bolt.

"Ahn, we can't," Xander objected. He made a helpless motion towards Buffy, "For one thing, slayer duties, remember?"

Anya peered at Buffy and shrugged. "That's not really a problem. We'll just find another town on a hellmouth. One with a wealthy customer base and a controlled rodent population, of course."

"You'd rather we run away and _let_ Bleakgrave win?" Charlie snapped, turning fully back around to glower at the woman. "How noble of you. Don't forget to send us a postcard from Cowardsville."

"The hell dimension you'll get sucked into doesn't actually have a mail system," Anya informed her, "so you probably wouldn't receive it. Common misconception, though. And besides, why shouldn't I want to leave? Our odds of survival are mediocre at best if we stay, and _I_ don't want to live in hell. Plus, I couldn't bear it if something happened to Xander, and Giles is my source of income."

The ex-demon paused and considered Charlie seriously for a moment. "Oh… but you probably don't understand what I'm feeling because you're unemployed and single, and your entire family is already dead."

The room went unnaturally silent. No one else seemed willing to take more than a nervous, fleeting glance at her, but Spike noticed immediately how tightly Charlie's jaw was clenched.

"Anya… remember that list of friendship no-nos we talked about, twice this morning?" Xander asked. " _That_ was number four. But more to the point, I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying and fighting because it's the right thing to do."

"Right, number four." Anya sent a big, saccharine smile in Charlie's direction. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I'm sure you _do_ understand because you have _lots_ to live for." The smile still plastered on her face, she turned to Xander. "Let's stay and be portal fodder. Don't complain to me if you die."

Buffy took a deep breath. "And on _that_ cheerful note, I'll see you all at the Magic Box tomorrow."

* * *

Spike walked with his hands stuffed deeply into his duster pockets, keeping one step behind Charlie as she wove in and out of the throngs of pedestrians. Though she said nothing, Spike could tell by her quick gait and the stiff way she kept dragging a hand through her hair that she was livid. Sodding ex vengeance bint should've kept her trap shut.

Despite the fact that the evening was chilly and the sun had set a few hours ago, it was busier in town than Spike had seen it thus far. Couples and groups and parents with children wandered by, chatting and laughing, completely adrift in their own lives. The turnout at the championship celebration was going to be enormous, Spike thought as he nearly barrelled into a clump of someone's unruly brats. If the slayer really intended on saving every human, and _of course_ she did, they were going to have their work cut out for them. At the moment, however, he was far more concerned about the work at hand- making it through the night without pissing Charlie off any further.

But by the time they made it to driveway of the mansion, her burst of anger seemed to have fizzled into something else entirely. She stumbled a bit as she stepped off the walkway and headed towards the concealed entrypoint. Without a word, she tucked her magic book securely under her arm, shoved the unlocked window open, and crawled over the sill. It didn't take a genius to see that between her exhaustion and peaked emotional state, the reality of the situation was getting to her. Badly.

Sighing, Spike followed her inside.

He'd assumed that she would make tracks towards the bedroom, but instead, he was surprised to watch her toss the little red book on the battered couch in the living room. She squatted in front of a wobbly-legged side table and stuck her arm into its interior, pulling out a sealed bottle of vodka after a moment of blindly groping around. The cap came off with a nimble twist of her fingers, and she took a long draft of it.

Spike grinned. "Now _this_ is a plan I can get behind. We're gonna drown our sorrows in Smirnoff for the rest of the night?"

She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. "Can't."

"Can't _what_?"

"Can't drown sorrows," she answered tonelessly. "They know how to swim. Or maybe they're just so hollow that they float. But they never really go away, do they?"

The bright glow of the moonlight from the upper-story windows mirrored sharply in her eyes, and her fingers skimmed back and forth along the neck of the bottle. Spike wasn't sure if she was close to crying or if it was the harsh sting of the alcohol that made her eyes water, but it didn't matter. Seeing the unhappy gravity of her face made him ache to comfort her, hurt anything that had ever sent so much as an unkind word in her direction. But assaulting Demon Girl was probably out of the question, and Bleakgrave's day was coming. Not that revenge would help her cope in the long run, anyway.

"Look, if you wanna take a long, scenic drive to Prozac Nation when this is over, luv, drive you there myself. But now's not the time to go to pieces over all the wrongs in your life."

She took one more pull from the bottle, grimacing at the taste before she stretched out her arm and offered to him. He accepted it gratefully and took a few sips, watching curiously as she moved to the asymmetrical fireplace and dropped to her knees in front it. The biting warmth of the booze curled pleasantly in his stomach.

"I'm not going to pieces," Charlie said at last, as she began rhythmically moving dusty logs from the hearth to the firebox. "It's just that… tomorrow's the day I've been waiting for. For years. And now that it's here, I'm not even sure how to feel about it. I want Bleakgrave dead, but when he is, it'll be like… book closed. No one will need to think about Jesse, or Carol, my great grandparents... their story will be over, just a tiny footnote in the Bleakgrave biography, and they were _so_ much more than that."

Rubbing her face, she left behind a smudge of charcoal on one of her cheeks, and glanced at him apologetically. "Sorry, I'm just tired and maybe feeling a bit too nostalgic. I'll try to save the going to pieces for tomorrow… a billion little grey ones, in all likelihood."

Spike gave her a dark look, and carefully set the bottle of vodka down on the tipsy end table. "Plannin' on checkin' out tomorrow, Charlie Girl?"

"Trust me, it's better this way," she said bitterly, prying a matchstick out of her back pocket. She flicked it once against the hearth, and threw it into a nest of crumpled paper kindling. Within a few seconds, the ancient logs lit up like they'd been doused in rocket fuel; flames crackling, popping and roaring skywards. "Anya sucks sometimes, but she's not wrong. The Scoobies, Buffy, they've got families, they've got each other. I've got centuries of darkness and a permanent iron deficiency to look forward to. Everyone I love is gone. Hell, _I'm_ gone... I'll _never_ be the same again. But it means that I can take risks fighting Bleakgrave that the others shouldn't have to."

"Uh huh," Spike intoned. "And you think havin' a death wish makes you hard as nails, do you? The little martyr that could?"

"I didn't say I have a death wish. I'm just being realistic."

" _Bollocks_. Death's been nippin' at your heels for years, darlin', and it caught you once, so you know it can catch you again. And you're ready for it, aren't you?" Spike cocked his head to the side, studying her guarded facial expressions in the toasty, shivering light of the fireplace when he spoke.

"So tired of runnin' scared. Losin' the ones you love," he continued softly. "And that's the problem, see. You want it. You want to be out of this world even more than you want to kill him. That's why he'll get the better of you."

Charlie turned her head away from him. "I told you, I don't have a death wish. But what difference does it make, so long as Bleakgrave dies tomorrow? If I can weaken him, if they can stop him, then it doesn't matter whether I'm still standing with the ranks when it's all over."

"'Course it bloody matters."

She'd been staring into the flames, and suddenly she stood and pivoted to face him again. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

And there was the question she wasn't ready to hear the answer to, Spike thought. Probably because the answer sounded even worse out loud than it did in his head. He wasn't stupid. He knew she wouldn't return his amorous sentiment without the memories to go along with it. But he'd been working on his delivery, determined to find the perfect phrasing that would make her at least understand how he felt. He just hadn't discovered the right words yet.

So he took the easy way out. "Think I wanna cohabit with Rupert?" Spike scoffed, "Hit the cement in the slayer's basement? No soddin' way." At least it wasn't an outright lie, but it was no passionate soliloquy either.

Frustrated at himself as much as with her, Spike jammed a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and fished around for a much-needed, well-deserved smoke. His fingers settled on one, and he yanked it out. And with it came the mystery key he'd found, going airborne and striking the floor with a lively, twinkling bounce. It glided to a halt just inches away from Charlie's feet.

Frowning at it, she leaned down to pick it up. "What the hell is this?"

"Well, Watson… it's long, silver, looks like it might fit inside a lock or two." Spike gave her a mocking smile. " _Could it be a key?_ "

She held it lightly, inspecting it as though it were covered in needle-tipped thorns. "Where did you get this?"

"Found it in that hoity-toity suit I was wearin'. Why?"

She dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out another key, stacking them on top of each other like sandwich bread. They were identical.

"This is the key that locked the door to my crypt." Her skin had gone so pale that the faint blue veins that traced her throat seemed to darken beneath her flesh. She took a step backwards and her hand fumbled for the iron fire poker behind her. "Who the _fuck_ are you? Have you been watching me? Are you and Bleakgrave in on some scheme to hit us from the inside?"

Spike shoved the cigarette back in his pocket, the possibility of getting to enjoy it anytime soon about as likely as Bleakgrave deciding to give up his life of magic and murder. " _For the hundredth bloody time_ ," Spike proclaimed, exasperatedly holding his hands out in a show of harmlessness, "I don't know who I am. But rest assured, pet, if I was tryin' to pull a double agent act, don't you think I'd come up with a slightly less barmy narrative as my backstory?"

"You hate us all. You made that perfectly clear earlier. Thinking you're working for Bleakgrave _really_ isn't much of a stretch."

"Don't hate you. Could never…"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, but her white-knuckled grip on the poker relaxed a fraction.

Spike sighed and let his eyes flutter closed. When he opened them again, she was still staring at him, waiting impatiently for an answer. "Means that… it means that I love you," he said quietly, smiling a little in spite of how ludicrous it sounded.

Her body went absolutely rigid, as if gripped by one of the magician's spells. "No," she whispered, her voice quivering. "You hardly know me. You don't even know who you are!"

"Know how I feel. You're all I bloody think about, Charlie. Know you better than anyone. Think that you and me, we had somethin', luv. Knew to search you out when I was in bad shape, and the clothes from the crypt fit like soddin' glove. And now this key..."

The brunette vampire regarded him in silence, skeptical expression unchanging, so Spike continued.

"Know that your mum used to globe-trot, puttin' rocks from her travels into a jar and that's what you want to do more than anythin'," he confessed.

"I've never told anyone that," she murmured. Her eyebrows were furrowed in bewilderment, and Spike could hear her began to breath; soft inhales like lapping waves escaped from her lips. Letting her hands fall to her sides, she took a step towards him, intent rather than hostile.

Encouraged, Spike carried on. "You had some daft rodent named after your breakfast food, bit the big one inside your toaster. An' you like that shite alcohol, the fizzy sweet stuff."

Another tentative step.

He couldn't stop himself. "Know your tattoos like the back of my soddin' hand."

To that, she raised an eyebrow _._

"That's right, luv. Every line, every scrummy dip and swirl. Favorite's shaped like a backwards z," he said, voice going gravelly. His eyes dipped to her pelvis, and he could feel the heat in his own gaze. "You know the one."

A sharp breath caught in her throat, and then she was standing so close that he could almost savor the liquor on her lips. Her fingers reached out and pressed against his unbeating heart before twining into the soft, dark cotton of his t-shirt. It was the moment he'd been desperately waiting for, the open invitation to touch her, and so he reached out a trembling thumb to graze the delicate curve of her jaw.

He wasn't disappointed by her response. She leaned into his touch, and her hands slid up his chest and smoothly pushed his coat off his shoulders. The black leather fell into a supple pile behind his feet.

"Know that little noise you make when you come… wanna hear it out loud," he breathed against her ear. Closing his eyes, he nuzzled into her hairline, inhaling the earthy scent of her like he'd never get the chance again. He bent his head to lick the curving scar at the juncture of her neck.

Gripping him by his biceps, Charlie pushed at him gently, walking him backwards until his spine was pressed up against the concrete wall opposite the fireplace. Her lips hovered so close to his, and he could feel that magnetic pull to his own, reveled in it. Lashes lowered, he dipped his mouth down for a taste of her, and…

"Traho, sera," she whispered, the shaken, lusty haze clearing from her eyes as though a switch had been flipped.

Had the room not been spinning with the promise of heat-drenched declarations and sexual ecstasy, Spike might have registered the sound of jingling metal, might have recalled that Angel had left a few things behind when he'd gone crawling off to Los Angeles.

But the room _was_ spinning wildly, and Spike didn't hear a thing until the hard chill of iron cuffs clamped around his wrists and clicked shut for the second time in less than a day.

"Oh, bloody hell," he hissed, tugging at them. Above him, the heavy chains were looped several times around a thick, cast bracket that was bolted to the wall. Spike shot his captor a ferocious glare as she darted safely out of reach. "What's it now?"

"I don't know what you're playing at, but how can I possibly trust you? You 'remembered' all that stuff just now? Convenient."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Or maybe I didn't wanna say, 'cause one bleedin' word on the subject would have you either boundin' for the hills or puttin' me under lock and chain once more. And looky here, _chains_."

Without replying, she snatched his abandoned coat off the floor and perched on the sofa. The black cowhide tented over her lap as she turned it over, firmly running her thumb and forefinger along the seams in search of... what? Secret messages from Bleakgrave? Magical contraband?

"Don't you dare mar the leather," he threatened as she turned his duster sleeves inside out.

Still ignoring him, she began pillaging through his coat pockets. After a few minutes, all she'd found was a grand total of four misshapen cigarettes. She seemed discouraged, lacking any solid confirmation of his guilt, and she tossed his coat limply over the arm of the couch.

It seemed to Spike that he had two choices. He could give up, chafe and sag against his restraints and let her think what she wanted of him. Or he could open her eyes to the certainty of their relationship. She clearly wasn't accepting logical reasoning as proof, but there were other ways. And Spike had a feeling he was really good at those other ways. He'd almost had her, hadn't he?

"Suppose I should give up the rest of the damnin' evidence," he said slyly, "Hand it over myself but, uh… you know." Spike jerked his chains to show that he couldn't reach into his jean pockets.

Her eyes zeroed in suspiciously on his rather tight jeans. Heaving a sigh, she slid off the couch and stalked back over to him.

"Which pocket?" she demanded.

He grinned wickedly. "Can't say I remember."

Her chin rose a fraction, as though she was willing herself not to be bothered by his provocation. With a muttered curse, her fingers dove into his front pants pocket.

"Little to the left, baby. Think you'll find what- oww!"

Spike found himself shoved face-first against the wall, feeling Charlie's hand snaking down his back pocket and claiming his zippo. Her fingers disengaged from his pants before he even got the chance enjoy it, or think up any other ways to get under her skin. She released her grip on the back of his neck, and Spike turned to face her again.

"This is it? A _lighter_?" she deadpanned, holding it up to his face like he should be ashamed of it.

"Like I said. Evidence," he smirked, "to go with those treacherous cigarettes you uncovered."

"You're really irritating."

"And you're really hot when you're all wound up."

With a frustrated groan, she pocketed his lighter and began heading out towards the hallways that led to the bedroom.

And that was about the point that Spike's panic set in. "Hey… hey!" he called, completely failing to keep the distress from surfacing in his voice. "You're not flyin' the cage and leavin' me here to rot, are you?" Maybe he _had_ taken it a step too far...

"Chill out, Fortunato. I'll be back in a minute."

To his relief, she did reappear quickly, changed into sweats and a slouchy tank, with a short pile of greying blankets and pillows nestled between her arms. She dropped one set on the couch, and laid the other near Spike's feet.

He nudged the stack with his boot. "You plannin' on lettin' me use them, or is this another look-but-don't-touch torment you fixed up?"

"Huh?"

"The chains, luv. Got my arms hangin' like the undead version of a swing set."

"Oh, right. Sorry." She muttered something under her breath, and Spike felt the chains begin to quake, slowly uncoiling themselves from the bracket until there was enough slack that he could sit down on the ground.

"Ta," he thanked her, fluffing out the blanket and laying the pillow against the wall. He sat on his makeshift seat and stretched his legs out in front of him, regarding her as she returned to the relative safety of the sofa. The fire was burning lower than before, and the soft-focus light and heady smell of oakwood created an almost romantic atmosphere, if not for their ramshackle surroundings. He caught her stealing a glance at him as she settled down on the couch.

"I know you feel it too," he purred. "There's something between us."

"Yeah. I'd say about ten feet, give or take. And that's how it's going to stay until I talk with Buffy and Giles tomorrow. Go to sleep, will you?" Charlie lay on her side, tucking her knees into her chest and wedging the blanket ends under her legs. She was out like a bloody light.

Spike leaned his head against the wall and watched her drift off. She must have been exhausted, judging by the way her eyelids dipped and fell closed immediately. In sleep, her face lost its strained and bone-tired appearance, lips gently parted and hair draping in rivulets over the side of the couch. How he wished she trusted him, wished she'd nestle her head in his lap as she slept, for however much time he could steal.

It didn't matter that he couldn't remember where he'd first met her or what she'd done to make him love her. Every part of him reacted to her presence, like some deeply-ingrained, Pavlovian response. She was buried in his gut, entrenched as firmly as tree roots, and the very thought of anything happening to her was enough to twist his stomach into ropes.

She'd live through tomorrow, Spike promised himself. He'd make sure of it. She'd have to dust him to be rid of his protection.

With such thoughts running riot through his head, Spike fully intended to stay up and keep vigil over Charlie's slumbering form, burn the image of her face into his retinas for all eternity, even if eternity ended in less than twenty four hours. But the heat from the fire wound itself languidly into his bones, and his eyes grew heavy with sleep. It wasn't long before he slumped over on his pile of blankets and succumbed to fatigue as well.

And that's when the dream began.

* * *

 _A/N: Duuuudes! Hello! I'm still alive!_

 _We're about to go careening into the thing that this whole story has been heading towards since the beginning… the Bleakgrave showdown! Who will survive? Who will bring snacks? Who will become enslaved as Bleakgrave's personal stage assistant for the rest of their natural life? Hah, totally kidding. Probably._

 _Oh and next chapter… full steam ahead. Get it? Steam? Cause there's gonna be… yeah, okay, I'll just show myself out._

 _Thanks to all you favoriters/followers/reviewers. You're the reason I keep writing._

 _Leave me a review pleeeeease! It makes me so happy when I can interact with you guys and gain some insight into how you're feeling about the story._


	40. Chapter 40- Eyes Wide Open, Part 1

It was almost as though the dream had been waiting for him.

The wind roared in Spike's ears and polished elevator doors whizzed by as he plummeted downwards like a stone-dead pigeon. Despite the hazardous speed, he felt weightless, almost enjoyed the thrill of rushing air and the vampire equivalent of adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. Until he looked down, of course.

"Oh, balls," he cursed, as the shiny floor rose up to greet him.

Spike threw his arms out to break his fall, belatedly wondering why he was bothering since he was about to become a freshly made Rorschach pattern on the surface below, regardless of whether he hit arms-first or head-first. His face twisted into a grimace, his eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of splattering, and then he collided with the ground.

Or he should have, at least.

Except that his arms went _through_ the ground with a splash, followed by his torso, and then finally his head. It was a violent, barely-cushioned landing, and bloody _hell_ did it hurt, but at least it didn't feel like his organs were scattered amongst several square yards of hard linoleum. It was liquid. He'd landed in liquid.

Face down, he opened his eyes to get his bearings, but the murkiness of the water surrounding him prevented him from seeing a damned thing. Cold, briny swill poured into his mouth, and he flailed and kicked until he felt solid ground at his knees. Truth be told, he was fairly mortified by his panicked reaction, given that it was only a dream and he didn't _need_ to breathe, but relief rushed through him all the same when he found the water to be shallow. He lunged to his feet and surfaced, sucking in a deep lungful of air as the dark water sloshed lazily against his upper thighs. In a daze, he looked about the room he'd fallen into.

The space was brightly lit, though he couldn't see any light fixtures, and it spanned a similar length to the giant living room in the mansion. But unlike the mansion, it seemed to be rather lacking in the exits department. Four translucent walls surrounded him, opaquely clouded with fog, and one translucent ceiling stretched overhead, also obscured by thick condensation. Spike had no memory of falling through it. He also had no memory of removing his shirt, but given that he was dressed only in a soggy pair of jeans, he'd either lost it in the fall or hadn't had one to begin with.

Something brushed against his shin, and then Charlie was surfacing next to him, coughing and gasping as badly as he had been. Spike grabbed her elbow and helped her to stand, the chilly water cascading off her soaked clothes and reuniting with its source below. He couldn't help but notice that the thin shirt she'd been sleeping in was clinging to her upper body in all sorts of intriguing, see-through ways. Once he'd allowed himself a momentary leer, he also saw that her hair was plastered to the sides of her cheeks in a similar fashion, and she swept it off her face and scowled at him.

"What are you doing here? This is _my_ dream…"

"Oh, right," Spike sneered, releasing her arm, "'cause I _wanted_ to be tossed into a bloody fish tank filled with bog water."

"It's not a fish tank," someone said from behind them.

Startled, both vampires whirled around. Spike slipped into game face, baring his teeth at the dark haired, sweater-clad woman who was smiling calmly back at them. The edges of her floral skirt drifted back and forth in current of the water, but somehow it managed to stay perfectly dry.

"Yeah?" Spike asked. "You decorate this yourself or did you forget to hire a plumber?"

"I'm just visiting."

He lifted an eyebrow, "... the Swamp Thing?"

It was then that Spike realized that Charlie had grown abnormally silent beside him, and he glanced over to find her staring at the woman in disbelief. "Janna?" she finally said, her voice cracking with stifled emotion.

"Hello, my little penyáki."

"Janna, oh god, I've missed you." With a soft cry, Charlie crashed past Spike and wrapped her arms tightly around her aunt's waist. "So much has happened," she sobbed against the woman's chest, "I need to tell you everything. I'm so lost, Janna, I don't know what I'm doing anymore and tomorrow… tomorrow…"

"Hush, Charlie bear," Jenny said, resting her chin on crown of her niece's head. "I already know everything. Don't be scared. Everyone gets a bit lost sometimes, and anyone can be found again. Not with maps, or search parties, or flares, but with _purpose_ , penyáki. Just figure out where you need to get to, and keep moving towards it. The world will wait for you to get there." Jenny pulled away and cupped Charlie's face, wiping away the girl's tears. "But you can't stay _here_. The flood is rolling in."

"Flood?" Spike echoed, looking around and seeing no means for more water to get in. It was like being stuck inside a teenager's neglected terrarium. He didn't think he was claustrophobic, but there was something about the sharp lights and glassed-in walls that made him all sorts of uncomfortable.

" _Blood_. Aren't you listening?" Jenny gave him a thorough visual appraisal as if she were really seeing him for the first time. He wasn't sure what her verdict was, but it didn't seem to matter since she merely pointed down towards her feet. Sure enough, thick, red fluid was beginning to billow up from underneath like an angry, dark storm cloud. Spike supposed that in another time, another dream, a torrent of blood being pumped out of the floor would have been a wondrous thing to behold. But mixed with brackish salt water and inching towards his waist, like some weird, dirty science experiment… the appeal just wasn't there.

"See?" Jenny said. "It's so thick that even _you_ would choke on it."

"If we can't stay here, then how do we get out? There's no-" Charlie trailed off as she stared at the wall behind her aunt, and Spike looked to where her eyes had suddenly focused. A half dozen wooden doors had appeared along the wall farthest from them. They were all uniform in height, width, and color, but each one had a knob unique to itself, ranging from modern and chrome, colorful and whimsical, to rusted and barely functional.

More than ready to run back to the land of the awake, Spike waded to the closest one and fastened his hand around its crystal knob. It wouldn't turn. The door also wouldn't break when he attempted to assault it with his boot. Nor would it open when he swore at it in English, Latin, Fyarl, and then German for good measure. Continuing to curse, he moved down the line.

The door with the tarnished knob was locked. The door with the iron lever wouldn't move. The one with the golden latch was shut tight, and the doorknob with the carved face started screaming the second he touched it. The last door's knob looked like it had been melted off with a blowtorch, and Spike didn't even want to know where that one led, even if he could get it open.

Resigned, he trudged back towards the women.

"You'll need a key," Jenny stated when he returned, and Spike wondered what the easiest way to murder a ghost was.

"You don't say," he growled.

Reluctantly, Charlie stepped away from her aunt's embrace and frowned at the wall of doors. "But we don't have any keys."

"Sure you do. Why do you think he's here?" Jenny asked, inclining her head towards Spike.

"Divine punishment?" Charlie offered. "Someone's sadistic sense of humor? Oh, sorry, was that rhetorical?" When Spike caught her eye, she didn't look sorry at all.

But he didn't get the chance to quibble with Charlie or process what Jenny's comment had meant before the older woman marched over to him, stuck her very corporeal fingers into his chest, and _pushed_.

"Oi!" he yelled, glaring at the gypsy. "What the BLOODY HELL was that for?"

"For her. For you. You're going to feel hollow when the wind stops howling. Look."

His chest stung, and he looked down to see what damage she'd done to the wound that had almost completely healed. To his dismay, it was wide open again, but instead of dripping blood and gory muscle, the chasm was dry and littered with an impossible amount of keys. Skeleton keys, shiny silver keys, heavy brass keys, old iron keys… it was an antique collector's field holiday.

With the water now up to her ribcage, Charlie half-walked, half-swam over to them. "There's so many…" she said, tilting her head to see inside the opening Jenny had created, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. "How do we know which one to pick?"

"Well, that would be my job," Charlie's aunt replied. She reached inside Spike's chest like it was her own personal pantry cabinet, and began sifting through the bits of metal. Spike wasn't sure if he should be affronted by actions, but she seemed far too determined to be stopped. And besides, if a key was the ticket to consciousness and dry clothes, he was content to let her stick her hands wherever she wanted. Well, _almost_ anywhere.

"Let's see… no." One shining stick of metal went flying over her shoulder. "No," Jenny flung another one. "That's for the Magic Box. No, no, no. Huh..." She stopped and pulled out a round, chocolate-encrusted wafer. "Here's a coo-key…" Jenny took a bite of it, then spat it back out. "Stale. This is for that nice, vintage car of yours. This one's for that awful factory. Ah! Here we are." She handed Charlie a rusty iron key, decorated with curlicues of white and turquoise paint, and nodded in the direction of the door with the corroded handle.

With only a slight hesitation, Charlie slipped underwater, her form barely discernible under the swampy, rising tide. Surfacing at the door, she examined the handle for a moment, then scratched some of the rust off the lock with her fingernails. She slid the key into the lock, jiggled it around, and finally wrenched it to the side. Spike heard a loud popping noise, and then the knob was turning easily in Charlie's hand. She turned back to look at her aunt, droplets of dull, red-tinged water running down her forehead and collecting on her cheeks.

"Are you coming?" she asked, the words quiet and pained, as though she already knew the answer.

Jenny gave her a sad smile. "I can't, Charlie. I want to. But I've got somewhere else to be."

"How many more times can my heart break before there's no pieces left to glue together? Janna, I don't want to say goodbye anymore."

"Then don't say it. But… tell Rupert that… that I'm okay, will you?" Jenny smiled again, and it looked like she was a million miles away. "It didn't hurt. I still check in on him from time to time, and if he doesn't start getting a life soon, I might have to send a poltergeist or two."

Charlie's bright green eyes overflowed with tears and sorrow. "I love you, bibio."

"Latcho drom, ves'tacha."

With one more fleeting glance at her aunt, Charlie squared her shoulders and pushed the door all the way open. Then she stepped inside, and let herself get swept away with the current that was flowing through the open door.

By this point, the tide was lapping at the very bottom of Spike's newly-injured injury, close enough to his nose that he could pick out the individual scents of salt, rotten flesh, and plasma in the water. The blood part smelled off. Old. Not something he wanted to stand around and bathe in like an undead pickle. He'd been content to give Charlie and her aunt some space, but now that Charlie was gone, he was more than ready to pull his own vanishing act.

"Well. Not that this hasn't been a real treat, but your pool could use a bit of a hose down. Think I'll just…"

"No," Jenny said firmly, latching onto Spike's arm as he starting moving past her. "Charlie's key wasn't for you. You'll need to go through a different door. But don't worry," she said, acknowledging the alarmed look on Spike's face, "They all lead to the same place if you know which way to go. Try this one."

She reached into his chest and pulled out the very last key, dropping it into his hand. It was a glossy, bright gold one and it felt heavy resting in the curve of his fingers.

"Hmm," she hummed, frowning at the vacant cavity. "You're empty now. You should fill yourself back up before this is over. Something effulgent would look nice in you."

 _Effulgent_. The word glimmered in his mind like a long lost beacon.

"Yeah. I'll, uh, do that," he said, giving her a perplexed glance as he edged towards the door with the gilded handle. A sigh of relief escaped him when the key twisted smoothly in the lock and the doorknob turned in his hand.

Jenny's lips curved with secrets untold as he opened the door. "Take care of her, William."

"William?" he repeated, pausing in the doorway to look back at her. But before Jenny could reply, the flood was dragging Spike through the opening and into its cavernous darkness...

-ooOoo-

Spike's eyes flew open.

With a groan, he lifted his head out of the awkward, slanted angle he'd fallen asleep in, and pressed a hand to the center of his chest. It was still shielded by the fabric of his t-shirt and felt completely solid against his touch. Comforted that the odd dream hadn't had any real world side-effects, he took drowsy stock of his surroundings. In the warm gloom of the living room, his vision settled first on the restless, feeble blaze in the fireplace, and then onto the girl on the couch.

Seemed as though Charlie had been awake for a short while already. One of her legs curled under the other, and her back was to the fire as she hastily leafed through the pages in Willow's magic book. Though mostly upright, she still looked rumpled and sleepy. The same way she'd look after a hot little tumble in the sheets, he realized, growing instantly hard at all the other, much more obscene images the thought provided.

Spike's chains rasped against the floor as he adjusted himself and other stiff body parts into a more comfortable position, and the mahogany sheen of hair that curtained over Charlie's face drew back as she glanced up at him.

"Can't sleep either, then?" he asked, rubbing the weariness out of his eyes.

She made a face like she'd sniffed a container of spoiled blood, and Spike braced himself for the incoming sarcasm. "What gave it away, Captain Obvious?"

"Well, well. Sounds like _somebody_ needs to hop back into beddie bye and climb out on the right side."

Her book shut with a forceful sound and she turned what Spike had decided to call the _full wrath-of-Charlie_ on him. "Oh believe me, there's nothing I'd like more than to go crawl into my nice, warm bed. But instead, I'm stuck nightmaring on a lumpy couch in McMansion purgatory because _somebody_ can't stop lying. But please, don't let that stop _you_ from being unconscious."

"Yeah? Maybe I _will_ sack out again," Spike retorted. "Least you're less bitchy in my bloody nightmares. Think I prefer you blubberin' all over your aunt's togs to this permanent state of-"

"-what did you say?"

" _I said_ you've been actin' like a right bitch since-"

"-no, your dream…? What was it?" That strained, pissy look on her face was suddenly replaced by a furrowed brow and an expression of cautious interest.

"Oh. Dunno," Spike admitted, fiddling with one of the iron shackles around his wrist and staring longingly at his cigarettes on the too-far-away coffee table. "Dropped in on the horror rendition of One Fish, Two Fish, Tank Was Reddish. You were there, and your auntie too." He grimaced at the memory. "Bleedin' wench stuck her fist through my chest to get to some soddin' keys."

Charlie's eyes widened for a second before her gaze began darting around the room like a frightened bird, landing everywhere but on Spike. And it quickly dawned on him why she'd gone so quiet.

"You had it too…" he accused, a slow smile building on his face. "Even asked me what I was doin' there, didn't you? _Told_ you we were an item."

"Yeah. I'm Pink Floyd's _A Momentary Lapse of Reason_ and you're a broken record."

"Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Grudgingly, she met his perceptive stare. "It doesn't mean anything."

He arched an incredulous eyebrow.

"You don't know!" she exclaimed, "You've been a vampire for what? A few days? This probably happens all the time to vampires who sleep near each other!"

"Want me to go get you a nice paddle to steer that Egyptian river, luv?"

"Will it be quiet while you're gone?" Charlie narrowed her eyes at him before returning her attention to the book, flipping through to find the place she'd left off at. " _Tempting_."

"Good, then let me loose so I can take a bloody walk." Spike was tense and tired, but going back to sleep and having another one of those bizzaro dreams was about as tempting as sinking his fangs into someone's colostomy bag. He needed to do something to stay awake. Didn't matter what it was- he'd fight something, fuck something, knit the Scoobies a matching set of scarves made of demon entrails, _anything_ so long as it didn't result in him becoming comatose.

I already told you," she said with finality, her eyes not straying from the worn, yellowed pages, "I'm not unchaining you. Not until I talk to Buffy and Giles tomorrow."

One look at the moon out the window told him it couldn't be later than midnight. It was going to be a long, awful night of stewing in his own frustration if he wasn't going anywhere.

Huffing in irritation, he shifted an arm behind his back to rub a painful spot on his shoulder and made a most intriguing discovery. He glanced up to make sure Charlie was still engrossed in her book. She was. A devious smile played on Spike's lips.

"Fine," he said, cunningly. "When I slip the second cuff, I'll just head out by myself."

Her head snapped up with alarm, and she craned her neck to see his hands, which he quite purposely kept out of her view. "You didn't-"

"Didn't I?" he asked, fully grinning at her. "Maybe you should come over and have a proper look."

She hesitated, seeming to debate the wisdom of giving in to his goading. But after a moment, her common sense appeared to win out, and she settled against the armrest and went back to reading. "Like you'd be telling me if you had," she muttered.

"Right," he drawled, pulling his freed arm out from behind his back and laying it casually across his knees. "Been steerin' you wrong from the get go, have I?"

"I admit, you've been helpful. But that's no excuse for-" Her words came to an abrupt halt when her eyes alighted on his liberated wrist.

It was worth it, Spike decided, watching her lips part in surprise when she realized that he was indeed telling the truth. Worth it further still when she tossed her book aside, jumped off the couch, and took a few panicked steps towards him. She stopped just short of his reach. "How did you…?"

"Wasn't tight, luv. Problem with usin' mojo to do your dirty work. Doesn't always pan out the way you want."

Her hands slid to her hips. "Put it back on," she commanded.

Spike's grin turned feral. "Come and make me," he coaxed.

His belligerent demand pushed whatever caution she had right over the edge, just as he'd predicted, and she strode up to him, bristling with annoyance. Snatching the abandoned cuff off the floor, she glowered down at him. "Get up."

It did occur to him that if _escaping_ was his evil plan, all it would take was some quick maneuvering on his part to have his chains around her throat and the remaining cuff off his wrist. Either she didn't think him desirous of hurting her or the thought hadn't crossed her mind. Gut instinct told him it was the former. And besides, he had a much better plan than a cut-and-run.

"This isn't really about me, is it?" Spike said, following her directions but taking full advantage of her closeness to brush his arm up her outer thigh as he righted himself. "You can't stand thinkin' that Bleaks took somethin' else of yours. Wasn't a prickly issue if it was just some triflin' memories, but you don't wanna admit that he could've nicked somethin' as precious as love."

She didn't reply, but her fingers trembled as she slid the metal band back over his wrist and tightened it.

"You feel it, I know you do," he purred, dropping his chin so his mouth was only a breath away from her face.

"Annoyance? Distrust? Yeah, check and check."

"Desire… craving…" he murmured, letting his lips brush against her cheek, "Longing."

She twisted away from him, taking several rapid steps backward. When she looked at him again, Spike could see that she'd slipped into vamp mode, teeth glinting and eyes glowing like lightning-ready thunderheads. He supposed the effect was intended to scare him, but coupled with the unmistakable scent of her arousal, it did nothing but fuel his own lust.

"The only thing I'm longing for is a shower and a decent meal," she replied, her voice as sharp as a finely-honed stake. "Are you offering yourself up as tonight's cuisine?"

"You can threaten that all you like, luv, but you can't fool another vamp's senses, can you?" Spike asked, chains jingling as he tapped his nose. "You're all wound tight and ready for me to fill you up. You want me, and not in a fine-dining sorta way."

"No, I don't."

"Care to wager on that?"

"Wager with what?" she scoffed. "The leftover pile of tobacco on the coffee table? You own nothing, and you can't prove it anyway."

"One kiss. You'll be beggin' me to fuck you senseless against the wall, kitten."

She let out an exasperated sigh, her features fading back to human. "You have a one track mind."

"Oh, there's plenty of tracks, luv. It's just they all lead to the same destination. One kiss, and if it's not what you want, I'll sit in the corner like a good little jailbird and keep my gob shut for the rest of the night."

She bit at her lip and distractedly ran her thumb under her chin, as though her logic and instinct were busy trying to hack each other to pieces. Knowing her, they probably were. "The _whole_ rest of the night?" she finally asked. "Like, no talking, no moving, no _staring,_ no nothing?"

"Cross my heart," Spike promised.

There was an excruciatingly long pause. "Alright. Fine. But _one. That's all."_

Even though he was still wearing heavy shackles, Spike felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. This was his chance, his Hail Mary gamble. If he could tempt her into a tryst, she'd finally see what he'd been telling her all along. He could prove that he knew her body as familiarly as his own, and she'd have no choice but to acknowledge the bond between them. The rest would just fall into place.

He reached out and placed his hands gently on either side of Charlie's face. The girl froze like prey ensnared in the crosshairs of a hunter's rifle, completely still, if not for the barest of shivers that he felt against his fingertips. Tilting his head slowly downwards, he chastely brushed his lips against hers. He lingered against her mouth for only a moment, pulling away and dropping his hands back to his sides before he lost what little control he had.

It almost dusted him. But he was playing a high-stakes game, and leaving her off-kilter and wanting more was the only way he was going to win it. He offered her a tight smile when she touched her lips and cast a surprised, what-the-hell-was-that glance at him.

"That was…" she murmured, "I figured that you'd..."

Spike's voice became liquid velvet. "What? Get a taste of that sweet, pink tongue? Snog you 'til you were a puddle on the floor? You seem a bit disappointed, luv."

Charlie's eyebrows drew together. "I just thought that-"

"-that I'd do this?" Spike asked, leaning forward once more and running the tip of his tongue along the swell of her bottom lip with agonizing slowness. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

"Or this?" His breath caressed the side of her mouth, and he threaded his left hand deeply into her hair, while his right crept down to firmly cup her backside. He began moving his lips against hers, pulling her tightly against the hard length of his body.

When she gasped at the sensation, he took advantage of her open mouth and slipped his tongue inside, stroking it languorously against the underside of hers. She tasted like fire and hunger and far, far better than blood, and he waited until he felt her defenses begin to melt, her hand sliding against his chest, her lips beginning to respond with full enthusiasm... and then he abandoned her mouth, clutched her shoulders and pushed her an arms-length away.

She panted through swollen lips, glared at him with dark, glazed eyes. "Screw you," she blurted out.

Spike grinned at her. "Say please."

She made a low, indignant noise in her throat but made no attempt to wiggle out of his grip.

"Way I see it is this, pet. You can spend the possible final night of your unlife down in the doldrums, perusing the little red book of hocus-focus. Or you can let all those thoughts slip and have one last hurrah, straddlin' your's truly 'til you can't see straight. Lady's choice."

She didn't say anything, and for a moment Spike thought he'd blown it. But then she reached out and began carefully toying with the bottom hem of his shirt.

Equal parts of hope and desire swelled up inside him. "That a yes, then? Say you want it, luv," he whispered.

Ever defiant, she didn't say anything. Instead, she closed in on him like a magnet, her mouth crushing against his in a brutal attempt to get as close as possible. Spike wanted her verbal consent, needed to hear her say aloud that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, but the press of her body, the insistence of her mouth that burned him with its cool fire, it wore down his need and replaced it with a much more urgent one.

He found he didn't really need to hear the words after all.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello there! We're past 100 followers! Huzzah! And there's so many favoriters too! In celebration, I'll be posting the next chapter really soon. (Meaning I got so inspired that I wrote a ginormous chapter and had to split it in half...) Thanks guys! :)_

 _There's also some real notes this chapter!_

 _Disclaimer: Everything I know about the Romani language I found on the internets. Believe me at your own risk._

 _A little Romani translation:_

 _ **Penyáki** \- niece_

 _ **Bibio** \- aunt_

 _ **Latcho drom, ves'tacha:** Fair journey, most loved._

 _Reviewers get Spike-shaped cookies and a used Sunnydale High hall pass._


	41. Chapter 41- Eyes Wide Open, Part 2

_A/N: Early update! So make sure you've read the last chapter before delving into to this one! Also, remember this is an M rated story kiddies, so avert thine eyes to the page break if necessary. ;)_

* * *

Spike grabbed the side of Charlie's shirt collar and roughly tugged it down her arm, exposing flesh so smooth and glowing it reminded him of polished moonstone. As her fingers wove into the thick waves of his platinum hair, he licked her shoulder, brushed his lips against her clavicle, besieged a scorching trail of kisses towards her ear. On the way, he found himself inexplicably drawn to the two, slightly raised puncture scars on her neck, and he ran his tongue over them, delighting in way her entire body began to vibrate with pleasure at his attentions.

He tasted the salt and faint zest of lavender soap on her skin, felt her hands meander up the back of his t-shirt, nails raking harsh, arousing pathways down his shoulder blades. A deep groan left her mouth when he followed the curves around her ribcage, circling her breasts, skimming, kneading, pinching at what lay under her thin undershirt.

Spike felt drunk with desire. And despite being bound in iron, he felt more in control than ever before, being able to draw out Charlie's electric responses and sensual cries with merely the touch of his fingers or flick of his tongue. She had surrendered. He'd made off with the upper hand and he had no intentions of giving it back.

Despite the frenzied pace they were setting, impatience and a nagging worry that she'd have second thoughts still haunted Spike's mind. Deciding to ditch the warm-up act in favor of the main event, he bunched up the sides of her shirt and dragged it over her head inside-out, her still-clasped bra coming with it. He flung them both into the darkness of the living room. Then, momentarily forgetting his urgency, he paused to reassure himself that he knew her form as well as he thought. One hand played over her ribs, while he reverently traced the faint tattooed symbols on her abdomen with his forefinger, stopping only when she made a sound of protest.

"No," she insisted, swatting his offending hand away. "Not that."

She was clearly in no mood for gentle caresses and affection. There'd be time after, Spike hoped. In the meantime, she craved distraction, and he was equipped and more than happy to be the provider of it. And so his mouth followed wetly down the slope of one glorious, naked breast, latching on to its peak, and he revelled in the moans he elicited as he alternated between light nibbles and teasing licks. He was so preoccupied that he didn't even notice that her hands had moved until they were busy at the neck of his t-shirt.

"So... 'bout these chains then…" Spike asked, lifting an eyebrow in amusement as she tore the black fabric down the middle like it was giftwrap.

"They stay on," she replied.

"Kinky." A smirk curled on his lips and he set to work on the knot in her drawstring pajama bottoms.

"I don't have the key."

He stopped his efforts and gaped at her. " _You don't have the-_ bloody hell, woman!"

"There's a spare at Buffy's," she conceded, too busy exploring his now bare chest to note his outrage. When her hand slid down to his groin and wrapped around his denim-clad erection, all coherent thought left Spike's head. He snapped the cord that was keeping her pants on, shoving them down to her ankles with her lace-covered panties.

One length of chain wrapped around her upper thighs as he then spun their positions and propelled her against the wall, her forehead gently resting against the cool concrete. He nipped at the side of her neck, pressed his straining arousal against the graceful curve of her lower back, and she arched her hips into him in response. Reaching in front of her, he traced a delicate line from belly, to hipbone, to deliciously silken inner thigh, before returning to dip between her legs.

She was soaked. If he'd had any doubts as to how much she wanted him, they were now as absent as the jeans he'd swiftly unbuckled, unzipped, and discarded one-handed. His other hand stayed its course, fingers sliding home and hitting the spot that he knew would make her scream, his thumb circling the little bundle of nerves as she moaned and writhed against him.

"Ought to make you beg for this," he rumbled in her ear. "That little ice queen act didn't hold up very long, now did it?"

She stiffened, twisting in his grip so she was facing him again. He could tell by the willful look on her face that supplication wasn't on the menu. At least not for her. _He_ was so painfully hard that he wasn't opposed to begging. So much for maintaining control.

"Was that a complaint?" she asked snidely. "'Cause I could get dressed and drag this out for a while longer if you'd like."

He opened his mouth to retort, but her eyes were already drifting away from his, roaming all over his body and pausing to linger greedily at his mouth, the channel of his sternum, his abdominals, and finally on the v-shaped expanse of muscle that descended to the throbbing hardness between his legs.

"Then again," she said, softer, licking her lips, "we're kind of against the clock here, right?"

"Right," he agreed.

"So maybe if I just asked you really nicely…"

Spike leaned in close and tugged at her earlobe with his teeth. "Very, _very_ nicely…"

"Alright…" Charlie said slowly. "I want you… I want you so deep inside me that it's the only thing I feel." The words came out like a demand, but her gaze, steady and pleading, besought his mercy. "Please," she added.

With an answering growl, Spike pushed her shoulders against the wall and lifted her. His fingers pressed bruises into the backs of her thighs and her legs wrapped around his slim hips, as though they'd rehearsed it a hundred times before.

And then he thrust upward, and it was Nirvana, Shangri-la, and the Elysian fields all rolled into one tight, luscious paradise.

" _Fuck_ ," he hissed through his teeth.

He stilled for a moment, his heavy-lidded eyes piercing Charlie's as she inhaled little mouthfuls of air, lips softly parted in rapture. Nothing could have prepared him for feeling how well they fit together.

"Oh," she whispered, adjusting to the sensation of him filling her. "Ohhh."

Gradually, deliberately, Spike pulled almost all the way out before plunging back in, slick as satin. "This what you want, luv? Want me to fuck the thoughts right outta your pretty head, my sweet girl? Gonna crave me like blood, you will. You'll see."

" _Please…_ "

She gasped as he began moving in earnest, his nerves singing, loins aching, her body beginning to move to the rhythm that he was setting and meeting him thrust for thrust. She clung to him like a memory should, and he wanted to pound himself so hard within her that his essence would be permanently embedded in her soul, wanted to touch every inch of her so that his scent would soak into her flesh and she couldn't ever forget him. Not again. Not ever again.

"That's it," he rasped, "let me in, Charlie, let me in. Wanna feel you spend around my cock, baby, that's it, _fuck…_ "

Spike's arms still gripped her legs firmly, but his mouth was free to explore. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, whispered filthy encouragements and tender devotions in her ear. When his lips grazed hers, she kissed him soundly, her silken little tongue darting in and out of his mouth to the same tempo he fucked her with.

The friction of their bodies warmed their skin, their thighs slippery from where they were joined, and later, Spike thought inanely, later he wanted to taste the divine mess they were making. Bury his tongue between her pearly gates and taste her offering like it was holy communion, the closest to heaven he'd ever get as a soulless creature of the night.

Bucking into her, he felt the hot, velvety pressure building in his groin. The metal links at his arms beat against the stones, and he could tell by the way she moaned, the way she clenched her legs around him that she was close. Her head tilted back against the wall, her eyelids drifting shut.

"No," he demanded. "Don't close your eyes, look at me."

Acquiescing, her eyes locked onto his as their bodies rose and fell against each other, and Spike watched the pleasure turn her irises from the hazy green of climbing ivy to the dark verdigris of a forest night. With a sudden cry, her delectable little quim began pulsing against him, and it sent him right over the edge. His vision lost focus, his head swam, and he gave one last, hard thrust upward, before climaxing into her.

"Charlie," he whispered, a plea, a prayer, a benediction.

"Don't stop," she whispered back.

Trembling, he dropped to his knees, still hard as a railroad spike and buried to the hilt inside her. By some small miracle and a solid bit of effort, he maneuvered them onto his pile of worn blankets on the floor.

And the dance began all over again.

-oo0oo-

She'd fallen asleep in his arms. Well, perhaps not so much _in his arms_ as collapsed on top of him like a cat on a bit of sunny floor. He'd had her six ways to Sunday… no, make that seven before he'd finally wrung enough orgasms out of her to wipe the tension off her face. Even then, sated and exhausted, she'd protested the soft, listless kisses he'd been placing on the nape of her neck and the sleepy embrace he'd pulled her into.

But now she was out for the count, the chains that constricted his wrists twisting impossibly around her ankle, behind his knee, over her lower back and around his waist. Her legs splayed on either side of him, chest resting against his, and he circled his arms around her inert frame. His fingers came up to brush her disheveled hair away from her face and he pressed his lips to her forehead. A quiet, contented sigh escaped her lips.

It'd been a bloody fantastic shag. Not that Spike had any memories for comparison, but he knew enough to know that most sexual encounters weren't so impassioned… or so _creative_. He smiled as a vivid picture formed in his mind; Charlie almost upside-down, spread wide and halfway to Happy Land, one recollection that he'd store forever in his newly built memory bank. He'd have to talk to Red about adding some indestructible vaults and extra security enhancements.

But it was this, the sweet, drowsy aftermath that he'd craved as much as the deed itself. Perhaps moreso. The past few days had seen him starved of touch and comfort, and he'd be damned if he didn't get some milage out of Charlie's lethargic cooperativeness. They even had a whole half-day before the cavalry was set to gather at the Magic Box. The possibilities were endless.

So _of course_ , it was right at that moment that a loud screech sounded from the mansion's front lawn.

For a minute or so, Spike wrote it off as some drunkard or a lost little beastie just taking a shortcut to town. But the longer he waited, and the more he hoped it was nothing, the more obvious it became that it wasn't. There were voices, and then footsteps. Both were getting louder.

"Charlie... luv?" Spike breathed in Charlie's ear.

"You have to water it every day, m'kay?" she mumbled, snuggling her face into his shoulder.

Whatever was about to disturb them, Spike decided, was going to be drained drier than vampire dust. "Charlie… up and shine, pet. Somethin's comin'."

Her head rose off his chest, and she blinked at him sleepily, her eyes adjusting to the low light. She looked down, taking in their unclothed, tangled bodies. If she was embarrassed, she didn't show it.

Outside, something giggled hysterically, and Charlie went rigid at the sound.

"S _hit_ ," she cursed, scrambling to action and attempting to unwind the metal links from around her body. Moderately successful, she slid off of Spike, yanked her foot out of the loop of chains it was incarcerated in, and grabbed her shirt off the floor. She tossed Spike his crumpled pair of jeans, and began wrestling her pajama bottoms over her hips.

The living room window shimmied open and an agile little figure came vaulting over the sill. Buffy dusted off her skirt, clicked on her flashlight, and illuminated a most enlightening tableau.

It was amusing, to say the least, watching the slayer's eyes go wide with mortification. They bounced from Charlie as she fumbled with the broken tie on her pajama pants, to Spike's chains, his shredded shirt, and then finally onto the jeans he'd wriggled into but had made absolutely no effort to zip closed. He grinned at her. The spotlight was quickly extinguished, but Buffy's cheeks had turned a shade so red that they were still easily visible in the shadowed room.

"Uh… um, I'll just…" The slayer took a few steps backward and made a vague gesture towards the window.

Charlie looked absolutely horrified. "It's not what it looks like!"

Spike snorted. "It's exactly what it looks like."

"Shut up," Charlie pleaded quietly.

"I recall you saying that you were going to keep an eye on him," Buffy confessed, having regained some small measure of her composure, "but if I'd known that you meant other body parts too… I _definitely_ would've knocked first."

"I didn't mean for it to-"

"-it's alright, not my business," Buffy assured Charlie with a wave of her hand. "Judgement Girl isn't me."

"So you're _not_ jumping to the worst possible conclusion in a single bound?" Charlie asked.

The slayer's mouth twitched as she rested her hands on the window sill. "There's zero conclusiveness. Only massive amounts of open-mindedness. If my mind were any more open, you could take out my brain and store stuff in there."

"That's a pleasant thought _,_ " Spike muttered under his breath. The spacious room was beginning to feel very crowded, and he was starting to feel less than civil towards the ambassador of post-coitus interruptus, the longer she dawdled.

"Anyway," Buffy continued, "something came up while Angel and I were patrolling. Something kinda wiggy, involving him. Finish getting dressed and meet us out front, okay?"

 _Well that doesn't sound ominous at all,_ Spike thought.

"Alright. We'll be right there," Charlie assured her.

With one last awkward glance at Spike's chains, the slayer backtracked through the living room and escaped through the open window. Charlie stared after her for a moment, watching the black curtains billow like phantoms in the light wind, before finally turning her back to them. She began scouring the room for the rest of her misplaced clothing, piling socks and underwear in the crook of her arm, and Spike could almost see the lines of stress making their grand reappearance between her brows.

"Suppose this is the part where you tell me we need to talk," Spike grunted, his eyes stalking her as she collected his boots. One was wedged under the couch and the other had barely survived its landing-place next to the fire. He spied her bra a few feet away from where he was sitting, and shoved it a little further under the wad of blankets with his foot.

"There's nothing to talk about," she replied, leaning over to look between the couch and the end table. "It was just… one of those things. Really impulsive. And really over."

"Rot," Spike declared, knowing full well that the certainty in her voice was all a bluff. He stood, taking his time zipping up his pants and buckling his belt. "You forget luv, I know you insides to outsides. Didn't jump me 'cause of the nice mildew smell and the melodic soundtrack of rats scurryin' about in the rafters, did you?"

Her jaw tightened. "I only wanted to know if we had a connection, if I… felt anything."

Spike broke into a smug grin, lewdly curling his tongue over his teeth. "Imagine you felt a lot of things, namely one big, hard-"

"-Yeah, yeah, cute," she huffed, rolling her eyes. "Stepped into that one."

"Sat on it, actually," he corrected.

"Look, it doesn't matter. I found out what I needed to, and it won't happen again," she promised, abandoning her search and flopping onto the couch to jam her feet into a striped pair of crew socks.

"So you're sayin' that you rode my face for the better part of an hour for what? _Research_?" he drawled. Her eyes flickered to his, darkening, and he could see that she was replaying the same mental motion picture that he was.

"I thought maybe I'd remember something if we… you know… But I didn't, and yeah, it felt good to let loose, but that's where this train to Badtown stops."

Spike lifted an eyebrow, and let every ounce of his sexuality drip into his tone. "Plannin' on gettin' off, are we?"

"Not with any assistance from you."

"Gonna let me watch then? Like your style, Charlie Girl."

"No, you get to _nothing_ ," she retorted, dropping his boots by his feet and eying his still-naked chest with what Spike hoped was barely contained lust. "Correction, you get to put a shirt on. I'll be back."

As she sped off towards the bedroom, Spike grudgingly commenced lacing up his scuffed black footwear, his fingers working on autopilot while his mind worked overtime. A little seed of doubt had presented and unfurled itself in his thoughts. It hadn't occurred to him that once he'd accomplished exactly what he'd set out to do, that she still might not concede his point. Hadn't she felt the same things that he had? That spark. That synchronicity? The mind-melting climaxes for fuck's sake? She must have. And he wasn't going to let it go until she acknowledged it.

When she returned a few minutes later, he saw that she'd changed into jeans and a crisp, white tank top, as though she was some virginal schoolgirl and not the ravishing, hot little dish that had been squirming on top of him not a half hour ago. The costume change only added to his suspicion that she was trying a bit too hard to dismiss the ordeal.

"Here," she said, thrusting a t-shirt at him, charcoal grey and identical in size to the one hanging in tatters off his shoulders.

"And what exactly would you like me to do with this?" he asked irritably.

" _Put it o_ -" she began, exasperated, before noticing that the chains were hindering any possibility of him reclothing himself. "Oh. Right."

She touched his cuffs, one with each set of fingertips. " _Recludam_ ," she murmured, and the shackles clicked open, falling away from his hands and dropping to the ground with a noisy clatter.

Spike narrowed his eyes at her as he rubbed his chafed wrists. "Didn't have the key, was it?"

"Still don't," she replied, refusing to look at him as she began heading for the open window.

"So what," he called out, "I'm supposed to just carry this torch around 'til the next time you feel like lettin' off some steam?"

"Do what you want. I'm not the torch police." With that, she crawled over the sill.

Growling in frustration, Spike tore the remainder of his ripped shirt from his shoulders and snatched his duster off the end of the sofa. He liberated his cigarettes and lighter from the coffee table impound, stuffed them into his pocket, and followed Charlie over the window ledge and into the night. Gravel and sticks crunched beneath his boots as he jogged to catch up with her.

"Face it," Spike ordered, the words coming out muffled as he pulled the fresh t-shirt over his head. "All signs point to you and me, cohabitatin' in some kind of domestic bliss. Don't know what Bleaks did, but it was meant to screw us over, so the sooner everyone gets it through their thick skulls, the sooner we can eliminate the lousy sod and get back to the parts where you're screamin' my name all night."

"Oh _please_ ," she said, in hushed tones, "how can I scream it when _you_ don't even know it?"

"Matter of fact, think I do know it," Spike replied as they rounded the corner of the mansion. He thought back to what Jenny had called him in the dream. "Think it's Will-"

"-William. Oh, my sweet, sweet Willy, I looked all over but no one knew you," a woman's voice crooned.

Spike halted at the sound. That voice. It drew him in like a siren's song, curling into his ears and tugging at his withered heartstrings. There, just ahead in the smothering darkness she waited, as pale as a pearl and thin as bone. Thick rings of kohl lined her eyes like a raccoon's, and sleek, sable hair framed the face that studied him almost distantly. _Drusilla_ , his mind helpfully supplied.

Her feet were bare atop the driveway pavement, and she wore some sparkling black gown that whispered of swanky cabarets and late-night opera houses. Angel stood beside her, hand clasped loosely on her arm, and it was unclear whether he was protecting her or detaining her. Buffy stood just an armspan away, watching the woman intently, her muscles tensed as though she'd strike at the vampire if she so much as wiggled her toes.

"We found her wandering around Restfield looking for someone called Spike," the slayer told them, getting a better grip on the stake that was clutched in her hand. "We didn't know who she was talking about until she described you down to the radioactive hair color. While everyone else has been drawing a Bleakgrave when it comes to you, Vamp Interrupted apparently hasn't forgotten a thing."

"Poor boy," Drusilla whimpered, her hypnotic eyes burning into his. "Everyone's memories have gone away like worms in the rain. But Miss Edith and I, we remember." The vampire drew forward, and Angel reluctantly released her arm. She stepped lightly over the walkway until she was standing in front of Spike, smelling of tea, dry crypts, and expensive french perfume. Familiar, enticing scents. "It's time to be a family again, my William," she said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "Come back to me."

Her touch was like ice, and for once, Spike wasn't sure what to say. He sought out his emotions, the only clues he had in lieu of his memories. There was a deep appreciation and fondness submerged in his thoughts of Drusilla, he discovered. But buried beneath, there was so much more. Onion-like layers of pain peeled away to expose a slab of contempt, a coating of betrayal. A penchant for twisted games and feelings of inadequacy. There was something that felt _right_ about the darker sentiments, something he felt he perhaps deserved. But on impulse, his hand sought out the small of Charlie's back, as if to remind himself that there were better things to hold on to. To his relief, she didn't recoil from it.

"Friend of yours?" Charlie asked dryly.

"Her name's Drusilla," Spike replied, calling on his encyclopedia of insights. "Angelus sired her."

Buffy and Angel shared a grim look, and it was obvious they'd already had a conversation or two about whether or not Spike would know who she was.

"Oh, but we aren't _friends_ ," Drusilla cooed, in a way that oozed deviant pillow-talk and vicious jealousy. "I made him, my dark and deadly boy, so very long ago."

It didn't seem possible, but Spike knew in his bones that it was true. He had enough opinions and reflections on Dru that he could've filled several of Giles's overly tidy bookshelves. No one else in his mind came close to the sheer volume of musings as she did. But, Spike reminded himself, even if he'd spent a millennia in her company, he'd still choose quality over quantity. He knew exactly what he wanted, and it wasn't her.

"Look… you seem like a right catch, luv," Spike told her, "and maybe you did mean the 'verse to me. But I'm not ridin' off into the twilight 'cause you were once my bird. Belong here now."

"Belong? With her?" Drusilla scowled and pointed a long, black-tipped nail at Charlie. "She doesn't _love_. Doesn't _want_. Doesn't _care_. Come with me, my love, and I'll tell you such stories from our days gone by. We'll hunt, we'll bash, we'll _smash_." She gave Angel a coy smile, "And maybe daddy will join us, but he's been such a good dog lately…"

"Oh, dial it down, Morticia," Charlie snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, "It's four AM, not the Addams Family Reunion."

"Go back to your pasture, lost baby lamb," Dru hissed back. "I can see where you came from. Ten little wagons, all in a row when they buried their favorite daughter. Thirty-four gypsy throats made the prettiest music as their blood ran dry."

Spike felt the muscles in Charlie's back go taut. "How did you know that my family was massacred?" she asked, eyes flaring a dangerous shade of green. "That was a hundred years ago."

Angel shifted uncomfortably. "Dru, maybe this isn't the best-"

" _-William_ and I made a picnic of your forebears when they put that nasty soul in daddy. We drained them empty and danced on their corpses 'til sunrise."

A wave of shock and fear ran through Spike's nerves like an icy wind. Surely it wasn't true. The thought of killing humans in general didn't bother him in the least, but he couldn't have been responsible for murdering Charlie's ancestors. He wouldn't have harmed them, even if Charlie hadn't existed yet, he would have just _known_ not to _._ But even with his self-assured thoughts, a little tendril of something that felt suspiciously like guilt coiled in his gut.

"You may think I'm a lamb, but make no mistake. There's a wolf underneath," Charlie said, staring at Drusilla as though she could be eviscerated by sight. "I eat your kind. You say you murdered my family? You can't even figure out _shoes_. Why the fuck should I believe you?"

"Dru's a lot of things, Charlie, but a liar isn't one of them," Angel said gently.

Charlie looked to Buffy for confirmation, and the slayer gazed back at her with pity. "Charlie, I can't imagine how hard it is to hear..." she trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

"This is what's going to happen," Charlie said quietly, her sharp, brittle words directed only at the slayer. "I'm going back inside. Alone. And you're taking _William_ and Ms. I've-Got-Gypsies-Stuck-In-My-Teeth with you."

Charlie then turned on her heel, taking a few steps back towards the mansion before whipping around to confront them once more. Her face was cold and fierce in the moonlight.

"And if I see either of them again... I'll kill them both."

Spike looked at her, wanting to say something, _anything,_ but every set of words seemed as hollow and worthless as a plundered coffin. By the time he'd settled on simply denying the credibility of his batshit crazy sire, Charlie had turned her back on them again, her retreating silhouette consumed by the dark pathway to the mansion's entrance.

Only the sound of her footsteps and Drusilla's bubbling laughter remained.


	42. Chapter 42- Fault Lines

**Previously, because it's been a while (sob!):** _Vampire meets girl, vampire befriends girl, vampire vamps girl (with good intentions) and then realizes girl is actually a Kalderash and there was that one time he ate a bunch of them (with less good intentions)._

 _Now Spike, the Scoobies, and newly-vamped Charlie are teaming up against the evil magician, Bleakgrave. In the process of duping good old Bleaks, Spike asks him for the teensy favor of erasing that little Kalderash Buffet incident from the history books (since he's fallen for Charlie), and Bleakgrave does him one better and erases all memories of Spike everywhere. 'Cause he's kind of a jerk like that._

 _Though amnesiac Spike has managed to get himself back to the Scoobies and back into Charlie's arms, things start to fall apart when Drusilla shows up with all her memories intact and finally reveals the secret that Spike had been keeping. Let's just say that Charlie doesn't take it very well._

* * *

For something that would never tarnish Spike's flesh or brittle his bones, _time_ still had a habit of being a right arsehole.

In the short, recent portion of his life that he could actually remember, it had been anything but obliging. During the throes of ecstasy or the comforts of a warm meal, time had a way of flashing by at breakneck speed. The few days spent in the bowels of Bleakgrave's palace had easily become a hellish eternity. And now, as Spike stood in front of the mansion and watched the eager fingers of dawn scratch at the sky's horizon, it was as if time had ground to a complete fucking halt.

The thoughts in his brain seemed listless, whirling like a fat, drunken mouse in an exercise wheel as he tried to make sense of what had just occurred. All Spike could do was stare in the direction that Charlie had gone, his hands gripping the leather sleeves of his jacket in the same way he might grasp the steering wheel of a shiny black automobile he had no memory of driving. But unlike a car, he had no control over the direction or speed at which Charlie went.

A few feet away, Buffy tapped a toe against the pavement and glanced towards the street, clearly wanting to head back to Sunnydale's watered-down version of the Bates Motel for some shut eye before the big showdown with Bleakgrave. And beside her, Angel's attention kept snapping between the slayer and Drusilla, though the latter didn't look like she was capable of caring what the plan was.

But Spike wasn't ready to leave. Surely, he reassured himself, _surely_ in a moment or two, Charlie would come to her senses and rejoin their little crew of complications. They'd let bygones be bygones and set aside their differences until Bleakgrave had been dealt with. An extra day by her side would at least buy Spike some time to figure out how to make amends.

As if responding to his hopeful thoughts, the sound of Charlie slamming the mansion window closed echoed down the driveway. The emphatic noise of the latch scraping shut followed right behind it, jostling Spike out of his optimistic stupor. It was an auditory slap in the face, if ever there was one.

Right. Well, sod her.

If she was willing to take the assurances of Looney Tunes and Sherlock Overcombs… and alright, yes, the slayer too, over _him,_ that was just fine. He'd find some cut-rate, light-free transport and be on his merry way to Elsewhere. See how happy she was fighting the fight against Bleaks one soldier lighter. Maybe he'd go to Europe, or somewhere warm, south of the equator where the blood was said to flow as freely as the booze...

Except that he wouldn't leave, and he knew it.

Spike scrubbed a hand through his hair and began to pace. It could still be fixed, he thought madly, his boots scuffing noisily against the blacktop. He'd fling himself at Charlie's feet and atone for all his sins, whether he could remember them or not. Though, admittedly, breaking in a door or sticking his fist through the window glass to get back inside probably wasn't the best _step one_ in his master plan for redemption. Pausing, he lifted his head and scrutinized the roofline of the mansion for alternate entrances.

"You're _so_ not going back inside," Buffy said, and Spike realized she'd been watching him. Attentively. He half-considered making a break for it anyway, but the slayer already had an awfully twitchy look in her eye and a sharp, ready stake in her hand.

"Charlie would bite your head off," the slayer continued, "and I mean that in both senses of the phrase. And while I find myself _really_ not caring what happens to you, she's got enough on her plate right now."

"Granddaughter doesn't want to stay for the picnic, but the king's cup will be emptied just the same," Drusilla murmured, gazing blankly towards the route that Charlie had taken.

Buffy rolled her eyes at the dark haired woman. " _Mad Libs_ , now available in Unhinged Vampire edition. Pick up a copy at your local graveyar… wait… did she just say…"

"Granddaughter?" Angel repeated, his thick eyebrows knitting together. His eyes connected with the slayer's.

"Like, offspring of her offspring?" Buffy asked, working out Drusilla's cryptic words. "Meaning that William..."

"...turned Charlie," Angel finished.

Spike could feel their eyes boring into him, both repulsed and distrustful, before they moved on to Dru to confirm their theory. When Spike finally gathered enough of his wits to set his sights upon Drusilla as well, he saw that she was nodding, lips curled in that secret, cat-ate-canary smile that he didn't exactly remember but couldn't seem to forget either, even if he _really_ wanted to.

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike whispered, the significance hitting him like an anvil to the stomach.

Every thought in his mind fell away as he made room for this new, unwelcome detail. _He_ had turned Charlie. He'd drained her and fed her his blood, caused her to be reborn as whatever sort of vampire she was. It certainly explained all the little and not-so-little oddities they shared; the fact that they'd lived together, the dreams, the spark of life that seemed to erupt in his veins whenever she touched him. Why had he done it? Had she asked him to? Or had his intentions been as cruel and selfish as eating a gypsy caravan for the sport of it?

Not that his intention mattered much. Charlie had made it abundantly clear that she didn't enjoy her vampiric state, and enlightening her on this particular topic would only give her more reason to want him dust.

As if she needed _another_ reason.

"I'll name a star after Granddaughter, so my Willy won't ever be lonely," Drusilla sing-songed, grasping Angel's hand and reaching out for Spike's with the other. She cocked her head towards Buffy and growled like a bad-tempered lap dog. "Horrible slayer can stay and burn, but my boys and I will be going now. Shouldn't be here when the big curtain opens, you see. Come, my loves."

Spike ignored his sire's outstretched hand and shut his eyes in consternation.

"Sorry to disappoint you Drusilla, but you've scored a pair of tickets to the Not Going Anywhere Party at the motel tonight," Buffy said with feigned sweetness. "A double set of ropes, a couple of nice, sturdy knots... you can even catch up with your spawn once we've left."

Drusilla danced her fingertips up Angel's arm as he began to tug her down the driveway towards the road. "Ropes and knots? We're to play games, then?" she giggled. "I like _those_ kinds of games."

" _You would, you big ho_ ," Buffy muttered. She spoke so quietly that Spike almost didn't hear it, but he was too focused on the slayer's previous statement to register her jealousy. The idea of not being allowed to partake in the attempted kicking of Bleakgrave's ass was completely unacceptable.

"So your big scheme is to lock up me and Dru 'til this whole thing blows over?" he asked her, his teeth grinding around the words.

"Would you rather blow over the driveway the next time there's a slight breeze? 'Cause that's also an option."

Spike drew himself to his full height and scowled down at the half-pint blonde. "You're gonna let me fight Bleaks," he ordered.

" _Oh, sure_ ," the slayer retorted, making a lackluster attempt at a scoff. "Want a couple of daggers and the keys to my house too?"

"Mean it, Slayer," Spike replied churlishly. "Not gonna perch this one on the fence."

"Don't worry, you won't be perching on a fence," Buffy reassured him. "It'll be a chair. And you'll be tied to it. Now can we please _vamos_ before we find out any other fun Pop-Up trivia about you?" The slayer jerked her thumb towards the bottom of the drive, where Angel and Dru had slowed to wait for them.

Spike crossed his arms and glowered at her.

"Or," Buffy said, a little too cheerfully for Spike's comfort, "we can stay out here until daylight, and I'll work on my tan and you can work on being exploded by the big glowy death ball in the sky."

His jaw flexed in frustration, and _oh_ how Spike wanted to stand his ground and refuse to move until Buffy agreed to keep him on the team. But the sun wouldn't thwarted by his stubbornness, and apparently neither would the slayer. With a snarl and a heartsick feeling in his chest, Spike took one last defeated look at the mansion, and began trudging down the driveway towards the other vampires.

-ooOoo-

Three streets and one park pathway later, Spike regretted ever agreeing to go quietly.

The constant warning tingle on the back of his neck told him that Buffy was keeping a close range behind him, and with every step, the unpleasant prickle of her nearness grated on his nerves a little more. He picked up his pace to something that almost resembled a jog, relieved once he'd accumulated some distance from her.

It didn't last for long.

Shortly after he closed in behind Angel, the slayer caught up again and Spike was stuck like a paperback wedged tightly between two self-righteous bookends.

And so the group continued down Shadow Lane, and then Jefferson Avenue, with Spike deadlocked in the middle and fuming, his eyes unintentionally zeroing in on the tips of the Poof's stupid stick-up hair. It seemed to be mocking him, all perky and vertical. The strands didn't even move when the early morning breeze fluttered through it. And despite Spike's best efforts, he also found that he couldn't shut out the noise of Drusilla's incessant humming. _Your Cheatin' Heart_ , of all the songs she could've picked.

"Knock it off," Buffy said, and Spike realized after a moment that she was referring to the growl that seemed to be coming from his throat by its own accord. And it was at that particular moment that Spike couldn't hold the blistering anger and frustration inside any longer.

"SON OF A BITCH!" he cursed, abruptly stopping to kick an innocent trashcan at the end of someone's driveway. It made a loud racket as it flipped over onto its side, spilling rotten food and wet scraps of paper all over the road.

"I have my insides mojo'd open, memory wiped," he yelled, stomping his boot on top of the receptacle, "I crawl to her, tell her everythin', give her the hottest shag of her unlife and what do I get!?" He punted the crumpled metal remains back towards the sleeping household it came from. "Booted to the bloody curb, is what!"

He glared at the rolling trash can, breathing heavily as his companions stood by with slack mouths and eyes that had widened like open windows. Drusilla, on the other hand, didn't seem remotely troubled by his outburst.

"My poor Spike," she consoled him. "Don't you see? Grasp the moon and she'll halt all your tides."

"You," Spike said, whirling around in a flurry of black leather to jab an accusing finger at his sire, "I should dust you!"

Drusilla's expression soured. "It's not nice to speak to your mummy that way."

"Not _nice_ , is it? It's not _nice_ to knock the bleedin' bottom out of my relationship!"

With something that sounded like a cough, Angel took a step between them. "Can we maybe save this for _not_ now and _not_ here? It's starting to sound like Dr. Phil's therapy hour and we don't have that long before sunrise."

"Oh, well feel free to join this session if you're feelin' left out, Gramps," Spike offered bitterly. "We can get in touch with your inner child. Surely there's one or two still kickin' around your digestive track."

Over on the driveway, Buffy stiffened at his comment, though she didn't stop attempting to nudge the garbage back into the smashed trashcan with her foot. Spike rolled his eyes. Even with a looming apocalypse, the girl couldn't handle something as benignly evil as litter. "Angel has a _soul_ ," she said assuredly, scrunching up her nose as her shoe met with a half-eaten fish corpse. "He's not what he used to be."

"He may be all soul-having, Slayer," Spike retorted, "but he still can't go for an afternoon stroll in the park without turnin' into a giant campfire, can he?"

"What's your point, _William_?" Angel asked, refocusing Spike's attention.

Spike took an aggressive step towards his grandsire. "That your namby-pamby soul doesn't make you better than I am." A smug, nasty smile lit his face as he added, "And at least I can put it to the girl I love without gettin' my Mr. Hyde on."

Angel hissed so low that only Spike could hear him. "Yeah? Well at the least the girl _I_ love actually loves me back."

"SHUT UP!" Spike roared. He shook himself into game face and lunged forward, shoving Drusilla down into someone's manicured little koi pond and barreling smack-dab into Angel's chest. The abrupt force of it knocked his grandsire over, but the dark haired vampire was rolling and up on his feet again in a split second.

"So this is what you want, huh?" Angel asked, sneering through a mouth of newly-sharp teeth. "Fine with me."

The older vampire launched himself back in a tornado of claws and gnashing fangs, feinting a punch to the left before hitting Spike squarely in the nose. Spike heard the crunch of his cartilage, but the sharp, hot pain that bloomed all the way up to his brow only added to his determination. He dodged two more of Angel's jabs and managed to clock him solidly under the chin.

"Are you kidding me?" Buffy yelled from the sidelines. She'd completely abandoned her stint as garbage collector, and she narrowed her eyes at both of them. "We do NOT have time for this!"

"Don't worry, Slayer, this won't take long," Spike gleefully assured her as he catapulted his fist into Angel's gut.

As soon as the words left Spike's mouth, Angel kicked his legs out from underneath him and Spike felt himself topple like a domino. The back of his head hit the sidewalk so hard he felt his teeth clatter, and the lavender sky began to sway in and out of focus. Sprawled on his back, Spike groaned in discomfort as the entire weight of the big ape's carcass pressed down on his torso.

"Buffy! Stake!" Angel growled. Illuminated by the porch lights of a nearby house that had just flickered on, the stake swished through the air and landed in Angel's outstretched hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw Buffy go bounding off towards the awoken household, no doubt with some cooked up story to keep the inhabitants inside their homes and away from the vampiric knock-down-fangs-out.

Hunched over Spike, Angel adjusted his grip on the weapon, superiority practically radiating from his stare. And up until that point, Spike's only purpose had been to let out some bottled aggression on a very worthy punching bag. But as said punch-bag began to raise the pointed shaft of wood over his heart, Spike realized that the unfriendly sparring match was definitely over. It was high stakes. Literally.

Self preservation kicking into control, Spike snatched Angel's wrist with one hand, grabbed his upper arm with the other, and bucked underneath his grandsire's heavy form. The force of the movement was enough to pitch Angel forward and Spike used the chance to roll out from underneath him, sharply ramming his elbow just beneath the older vampire's ear as he went.

The look of pain and disorientation on his grandsire's face was one for the memory books, but Spike didn't pause to savor it. He grasped the stake out of Angel's weakened grip and slammed him onto the lawn, clamping one set of fingers over the vampire's throat. Dragging the tip of the stake along the front of Angel's poncy dress shirt, Spike popped off buttons until the very tip of the wood was pressing into the exposed flesh above Angel's heart. One tiny drop of blood beaded where the point dug in.

"Too bad you had to go and bring stakes into this, Gramps," Spike said. "'Fraid this is gonna hurt you more than me."

Angel paled beneath his lack of a tan, but his sneer remained fierce. "You got it backwards, Bleach Brain. Buffy will make you suffer for this."

"Promises, promises," Spike clucked.

He raised the stake. And paused.

In any other circumstance, Spike would have been happy to send Angel kicking and screaming into the open arms of the great beyond. No more uptight, martyrful private eye gumming up the works with his vexing comments and soulful stare. But given that Spike could count on one hand the number of volunteers that were able to physically brawl with Bleakgrave and his lackeys at the celebration, it didn't make sense to dispatch _any_ of the slayer's assets, deserving as they might be. Which meant that for now, Angel would live to brood another day.

It didn't mean that Spike was willing to spare him entirely, however.

Spike's fist made a vengeful arc downward and lodged the stake into Angel's shoulder. The vampire bellowed in surprise, instinctively reaching across his chest to claw at the protruding wood.

"Shouldn't dish it if you can't take it," Spike said coldly.

Then Spike allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, staring down at Angel, all beaten and inadequate. _He_ was the victor. _He_ was more tenacious than Angel. _He_ was- suddenly yanked upwards by the back of his coat.

" _Shouldn't dish it if you can't take it?_ That's some pretty good advice," the slayer seethed in his ear. "I'll be sure to engrave it on your memorial plaque." Apparently her conversation with the locals had ended just in time to catch the end scene.

Undeterred by her threat, Spike reached behind his head and attempted to grab Buffy's hair. "Get your mitts OFF me you bloody bitc- Arrrrhhhhhh!"

Without warning, it felt as though his head was filled with simultaneously malfunctioning electrical outlets, all surging from sparks to flames to full blown, white-hot infernos. Light flashed in his peripheral vision, and Spike dropped his weight forward, landing on his knees on the soft ground. He pressed his fingers into his forehead as the worst of the pain died down.

"This has gotta be the _lamest_ trick any vampire has tried. _Ever_ ," Buffy proclaimed. "I didn't even punch you, Mr. Academy Award."

Annoyed, Spike heaved himself back to his feet and attempted to back-kick her in the shin.

This time he almost managed to connect with her leg, but the results did not improve. And as he hunched back on the ground, willing the shocks in his head to ease off, Spike wondered for what felt like the millionth time what Bleakgrave had done to him.

Buffy still gripped the neck of his coat, and stared down at him in confusion. "Okay, what the hell is happening?" she asked.

"Yeah, that about covers it," Spike groaned, closing his eyes and massaging his temples.

"You shoved Drusilla and staked Angel, but you can barely aim a limb in my direction without getting all aaaaahhhoooww? Because I'm the slayer or because I'm human? What kind of vampire are you?"

"The kind that can still fight, you dozy cow," Spike growled. "The kind that's gonna be alongside you at the schoolyard rumble tonight."

Still prostrate on the lawn, Angel began to chuckle.

"Alongside us? _In an urn, maybe,_ " Buffy said incredulously.

Spike's eyes snapped open, and he twisted his neck just enough that he could see her. "You wanna win this war with Bleaks, yeah?"

The slayer gave him a look that was the visual equivalent of "duh".

"I just bested your second in command," Spike pointed out.

"Yeah, you're a regular marksman," Angel grunted, hauling himself into a sitting position as he pulled the stake out of his shoulder. " _You missed_ , Don Quixote."

"No," Spike said meaningfully. "I didn't."

"So you're good in a fight," Buffy granted him. "Why? Why should we trust you?"

Spike shook his head, irked that she still wasn't seeing the big picture. "Not about trust. Fact is, I've lots more reason to want Bleaks off this planet than Angel or your precious Scoobies do. It's soddin' personal. Think you're gonna win this brawl with a handful of humans and two vamps? Your chances are more dried up than Watcher's tankard of Pimm's on St. George's Day. You lot _need_ me."

The slayer didn't look convinced. "Right, with your unability to hit the non-demons. I bet Bleakgrave will just fall over dead when he sees you go all headachey."

"Can still fight every one of Bleak's minions, tooth and claw, can't I?"

Buffy was silent for a long time. Then she heaved a sigh and released her grasp on his jacket. "I can't believe I'm saying this. If there's even ONE wrong move on your part… there won't be any discussion. There'll just be a stake through your heart. You'll stay for this fight with Bleakgrave, and then I don't _ever_ want to see you again. Clear?"

"Crystal," Spike replied. He eased himself off the ground and began brushing the dirt and clumps of grass off of his coat.

"Ah… Buffy?" Angel began.

"I don't want to hear it, Angel. We'll talk about it later."

" _Buffy_ …"

Irritated, Buffy glanced over at him. " _What_?"

"Dru's gone."

-ooOoo-

If anything, the dreary little motel seemed… drearier upon return. Even though they'd made it to the safety of the room just as the morning sun had spread its fatal rays, the walls seemed closer together, the carpet dingier, and the whole place reeked more strongly of mothballs and despair than it had earlier. Had it really been just a few hours since the whole group had been sitting around, eating waffles and cramming for Bleakgrave's big curtain call? Felt like forever.

Drusilla had been a lost cause. None of them had the energy or desire to follow the wet footprints that led off down the sidewalk, especially since she hadn't planned on sticking around in old Sunny D in the first place. Spike was equal parts relieved and disappointed. While he wouldn't have minded getting some of the blank spaces in his memories filled in, he also had a nagging suspicion that Buffy might have reconsidered their truce upon hearing some of Dru's more sentimental anecdotes. In the end, it was probably for the best that his sire had given them the slip.

With her usual resourcefulness, Buffy wasted no time in coming to the aid of Angel once they'd arrived in the room. She immediately located a needle and thread and a tube of mercurochrome from her bags and motioned for him to go sit against the headrest. Slayer Nightingale to the rescue.

Her mouth puckered with sympathy as Angel painstakingly (hah!) sat himself against a sea of white pillows, like he were some delicate little flower and not a practically indestructible immortal. Pillock. The vampire tried to suppress a hiss of misery as he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and pulled his arm out of the sleeve, and even Spike had to admit that the raw, glistening wound looked uncomfortable. And totally deserved. Reaching out, the slayer gently ran her fingers above Angel's injury.

"You can have the chair," she said to Spike, as if she'd just remembered that he was still awkwardly standing near the entrance.

He snorted. "And watch the two of you make googly eyes at each other all night? A resounding refrain of _no bloody thanks._ "

"You aren't leaving this motel room."

Spike glowered at her as he ambled towards the far end of the room. "Ease off, Slayer. I'll take the tub." Without waiting for her reply, he slipped into bathroom and shut the door behind him.

His fingers swept against the wall for the light switch and he flipped it upward, squinting as the bulbs over the mirror drenched the space with unappealing, cold fluorescence. If the motel room could be called dated, the bathroom was downright past its expiration date. Pepto Bismol colored tiles clashed with a pastel green sink, tub, and toilet. The shower curtain was an eye-bursting lemon yellow.

But it was the vanity that took the blue ribbon for patience-testing, Spike quickly concluded. The lacquered counter accommodated an earthquake-like jumble of shampoos, conditioners, hairspray, creme rinse, three- no, _four_ different moisturizers, lip glosses, and one questionably masculine jar of styling gel.

Spike scrunched his hands into fists and switched the light back off.

In the sanctuary of darkness, he washed all the evidence of the fight down the sink drain, taking care to avoid touching his fractured nose as he rinsed the gore and grime from his face and hands. When his skin lost the tight, itchy feeling of dried blood, he shut off the faucet, pitched his coat into the bathtub, and climbed in on top of it. He settled his booted feet on top of the rusty valves, reclined his head against the ceramic lip of the tub, and closed his eyes.

He was bone-weary. Every ounce of vitality and stamina had drained from his body during his altercation with Detective Puncture Wound, though he had been unwilling to expose the depth of his fatigue while in the company of his sort-of adversaries. But alone, with the quiet buzz of the television and the muffled sound of Buffy and Angel's voices coming from underneath the door, he tried to give in to the exhaustion.

But sleep decided to play a despicably timed game of hide-and-go-seek, and it had found itself a sly little corner to tuck into. Spike had no other choice but to wait it out. After a while, Angel's murmurs turned into a rhythmic snore, the lucky bastard getting some kip of his own. The TV program switched from off-air static to the local news, and eventually to the early morning soaps. And once Buffy finally turned off the television, Spike could hear the lunchtime squeal of housekeeping carts rolling down the sidewalk, enroute to newly vacated motel rooms.

Still, he remained awake.

His restlessness wasn't because of the noise or the hard angles of the tub, he realized, as his eyes traced the patterns the mildew had made on the ceiling. Nor was it due to the occasional drip of water that wept from the sink spout or even the two times he had to vacate so the slayer could brush her teeth or use the facilities. The physical discomfort didn't bother him much. It was more the things that _weren't_ than the things that _were_.

There was no wind howling in the attic, no musty blanket at his head. No feeling that even though everything was certainly going to hell in a handbag, it was alright, because Charlie was only a reach away. Only her scent lingered with him, still all over his skin like some kind of personalized aroma-torture. The fragrance was woven so tightly with all his newly created memories that it was impossible to ignore it, impossible to shut out the images of her that drifted into his head unbidden.

Two days he'd spent trying to decipher the emotional riddles in his head, he thought angrily. _Two days_ and he had nothing to show for his efforts but some fingernail scratches down his back and the absolute hatred of the girl who'd wrought them.

Swearing, he extended his arm out and jerked a clean towel off the bar on the wall, wadded it into something vaguely pillow-shaped and buried his face in it. He breathed in the sharp, biting odors of chlorine and detergent, and eventually, after what felt like another hour or two of tossing and turning, he plummeted into unconsciousness.

But there was no restful slumber awaiting him.

Men and women in victorian clothing cheered and laughed wildly as the slayer beat the ever-dying nightlights out of him. When that fun little scene faded into another, a lady in a white lab coat removed all the nerves in his legs and forced him into a wheelchair. As Angel wheeled his paralyzed body in slow figure eights around the floor of an old factory, Spike could only watch as Charlie ascended a ladder, her dark head of hair growing smaller and smaller the further up she climbed. "You'll never catch her, Sit N'Spin," his grandsire whispered in his ear. "You're beneath her."

When Spike finally awoke, he was panting, adrenaline and dread bubbling in his veins like seltzer water. With sweating palms, he sat up and tugged his coat out from underneath him, locating his lighter and paltry remainder of cigarettes with the speed of a phantom. He lit one, puffed on it, and let the nicotine begin to steady his shaking hands.

And just as his jitters began to dissipate, the pounding on the bathroom door began.

"Oi! Just a fuckin' minute, you cretin!" he yelled, coughing out a lungful of smoke he'd accidently inhaled.

"You've got three of them, and then I'm leaving without you," Buffy's voice replied.

"Bleedin' hell," he muttered, taking one last, long drag and stubbing his fag out on the wall tile.

He left the remnant smoldering in the bathtub as he crawled out and stretched his limbs, noting with displeasure that he didn't feel any better with the rest he'd gotten. Stiffer, maybe. More twisted and confused inside his head. Definitely not better.

He sighed and ran more water from the sink over his face, then dug into a sizable portion of Angel's hair gel to slick his hair back. Left the lid open on purpose. When he emerged from the bathroom, grey smoke surged out from behind him like a tobacco-infused version of Dracula's mist.

By some unholy miracle, Peaches was nowhere to be seen. The slayer, however, was leaning impatiently against the edge of the desk, black ink smeared on her fingers and two crisp, white envelopes in her hand. She folded and shoved them into her pants pocket as soon as Spike saw them, but he was certain that the top one was addressed to "mom". Spike was also certain that the girl hadn't slept, judging by the deep shadows under her eyes and her still-made bed.

"You're not going to be much help if you sleep through the main event," Buffy said snippily. Spike glanced at the alarm clock on the night stand. It was half past five, leaving thirty minutes until everyone was supposed to congregate at the Magic Box. Not exactly down to the wire.

Spike shrugged. "Late to bed, and late to rise, makes a vamp stealthy, hungry, and-"

"-vaporized?" the slayer suggested, her eyes suddenly latching onto his battered face. "Maybe you'd be better off... you look like hell. "

"Yeah, the loo was a real five star for comfort in the Forbes Guide," he countered, feeling the muscle in his jaw pop as he clenched his teeth. "And anyway, I can't see myself in the mirror. What's your excuse?"

Buffy gave him a glassy stare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Could do with a bit of upkeep yourself, Slayer. Lookin' a bit tattered."

"Remind me why I didn't stake you?"

"Want me to start from the beginnin'?" Spike asked. He began speaking in a slow, mocking tone, "See, there's this magician wanker, Bleakgrave, and he's a bad, bad man…" He paused. "You should really start wearin' a helmet when you patrol, pet."

"You know, I don't think you care about Bleakgrave at all," the slayer replied, completely ignoring his ridicule. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you'd enjoy crippling him if you were, you know, _functional_ , but you've got _Charlie's White Knight_ practically stamped on your forehead."

So his objective was obvious. Wonderful. Chalk one up for William, muzzled vampire and lovelorn fool. "And?" he grumbled. "What's it matter to you, so long as I'm on your bloody team?"

"You know there's a good chance that some of us won't make it, right?"

"Yeah, been givin' it some serious thought actually," Spike admitted. "If any of you Scoobies drop off, think it's only fair that I get to use you as emergency food supply."

Buffy rolled her eyes in disgust."You're revolting, William. If something happens to me or Angel, I need to know that you'll do everything you can to take Bleakgrave down. Even if it means that you stop protecting Charlie to do it. If he isn't stopped, then she'll die. So will you, and so will the rest of us."

Suddenly, their conversation felt much more sober, made heavy by talk of consequences. There was a long draft of silence as her words sunk in.

"Yeah, I know," Spike said finally, meeting her earnest stare. "You've got my word, Slayer."

Whatever she saw in his eyes was enough to reassure her. "Good," she said. "Let's go."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _How terrible am I to have kept you waiting?_

 _I imagine it must've been aggravating._

 _In the future, I'll aim for more diligence,_

 _Or I'll write bloody awful poems in penitence._

 _For serious though, real life has been the kind of bear that you can't just undo or stab with a Chumash knife. But I've finally got some of that much-talked-about free time thing and I'm so happy to be writing again. And if I haven't been able to thank you privately, thank you all so very much for your reviews, favs, follows, and encouragement. They keep my fingers happily typing!_


	43. Chapter 43- Call to Arms

Something outside the Magic Box didn't feel quite right, but Spike couldn't for the unlife of him put his finger on what it was.

It might've been the conspicuously opaque store windows, both as shuttered and dark as a dead man's eyes. Or maybe it was simply the cluster of soiled newspapers, all scattered about the base of the front door. Though it was true that the shop had been shut down for a few days, as evidenced by the discolored paper sign that read "sorry, closed until further notice", it looked bloody unnatural. Clearly _somebody_ needed to tack a few more words onto his resume besides Watcher. _Sweeper_ would be useful. _Scrubber_ certainly wouldn't hurt either. Anything to rid the store of the B-rated horror film vibes it was currently giving off.

But despite the visual weirdness, Spike couldn't shake the idea that the odd little sensation prowling up and down his vertebrae was due to the air itself. It was too thick, too quiet, as if it were _waiting_ for something. Or someone. The fine hair on the back of his neck prickled in agreement.

Just ahead of him, Buffy halted in front of the Magic Box's entrance, her body poised and tight and obviously perceiving that same sense of threat. Her eyes made a quick assessment of all the details that Spike's had, and she tapped against the door with her knuckles. When no one answered, she twisted the unlocked knob and poked her head inside.

"Hello?" she called tentatively.

"Oh, h-hey, I'm g-g-glad you're here," replied a soft voice that could only be Tara's.

Spike breathed a completely unnecessary sigh of relief, chalked his jumpiness up to lack of sleep, and hurried into the shop behind Buffy.

Around the store, the sconces and table lamps washed everything in an eerie golden glow and hid the corners in shadows as black as graveyard dirt. The blonde witch was hunkered down at the usual Scooby research spot, the massive tabletop buried under a pile of old books and enough crystals and potions to resemble a madman's science experiment. Tucking a slip of paper into one of the big leather volumes, Tara slid out from her chair as the slayer drew near.

"Where are they?" Buffy asked, unable to hear the low ripple of voices that Spike's vampire hearing easily picked up on.

The girl hugged her arms and nodded towards the back of the store. "T-training room. Giles called and said he'd be here soon." Tara peered at Spike and then back at Buffy, a furrow creasing between her brows. "Charlie said that _he_ w-wouldn't be… er, you know, _coming_." She glanced at Spike again, blushing apologetically when he arched an eyebrow at her.

"Game plan's changed," Buffy informed her. "The new one includes an extra dose of vamp strength and less of a chance that we'll get seriously dead."

"Oh. That's… um... of the g-good."

"Yeah, well, let's hope you're not the only one who thinks so," Buffy said, pinning a doubtful look on Spike. "You're in charge of not talking. Don't make me regret this."

"Oh, ye of no faith," he replied, shaking his head as though he'd somehow expected better from her. In truth, he was still surprised his undead ass hadn't ended up in a dust pan after the little Angel-staking incident.

"I wish I did have Faith," the slayer muttered, passing the stairs that led to the upper section of the store. "She'd probably have bagged Bleakgrave by now. Unless she was _helping_ him, of course."

The door to the training room was slightly ajar, and when Buffy thrust it the rest of the way open and stepped inside, a faint whiff of slayer sweat and rubber floor mats infiltrated Spike's nostrils. But it was the achingly recognizable trace of thickets and fire-scent mingling with that of the room which made his mouth go dry. _She_ was in there.

Spike forced his suddenly heavy feet to cross the threshold.

The room wasn't well lit, but like one of the slayer's crossbow stakes, Spike's eyes found their target easily. Charlie sat cross-legged on the leather loveseat, the dim overheads burnishing the waves of her dark hair into a rich bronze. Her hands were folded neatly under her chin as she watched her companion sift through a cardboard box of jars and baubles.

"-not sure it will work, but we should at least try it," Willow was saying.

"Try what?" Buffy asked.

Both girls looked up at the sound of the slayer's voice, and briefly, Spike entertained an absurd fantasy of striding over with Bleakgrave's head in tow and laying it at Charlie's feet. She'd laugh, or cry, perhaps even kiss the bloodstained hands that had torn skull from sinew. She'd apologize for how she'd treated him, he'd forgive her, and every year forward they'd take Bleak's withered cranium out of a storage box, share a hot mug of blood by a roaring fireside, and reminisce about Spike's thoughtful, romantic gift of a severed head.

And then Charlie's fierce gaze met his, and it occurred to him that she'd probably just try to bludgeon him with it.

"Oh, no. No!" she hissed. She was off the couch in an instant, glaring stakes at him, then at the slayer. "You _brought_ him?! This was _not_ the agreement!"

The sheer amount of animosity in her declarations stung, even though Spike had fully braced himself for it.

"Agreement?" Buffy repeated calmly. "There was the yelly stuff, the death threats, and then the input-free, rushy-rush away, but I don't remember actually saying yes to anything."

Charlie's lips pressed into a thin, tight line as she once again took in the sight of Spike. Her hands were clasped in a valiant but failing attempt to keep them steady, he noticed, but he wasn't sure if the trembling was because of her anger at him or her nerves due to the impending battle with Bleakgrave. There was nothing he wanted more than to wrap his arms around her, console her with reassurances and promises to keep her safe, but given her tone and the slayer's demand that he keep his big trap shut, he figured it was prudent to _not_.

"Why is he here?" Charlie finally asked, directing her livid stare back to the slayer.

"We need the numbers, and William can fight," Buffy replied.

Charlie laughed, and it was a thin, brittle sound. "Yeah, and what makes you so sure he's gonna fight on our side? Did he kiss you too? Tell you he loved you? I've found it really helps with the getting-overage of ancestorcide."

" _Of course not,_ " the slayer objected, her lip curling with disgust at the thought, "and we'll deal with your family stuff once this is over. But Bleakgrave hurt him too, and Charlie- he's on our side because you're linked. He's your _si_ -"

"-sidekick," a panicked Spike interrupted, before Buffy could wrench the lid off of the giant can of worms labeled "sire". The slayer may have assumed that Charlie would understand, but Spike knew it would go over as well as tossing a lit firecracker into a gas tank. "You, me," he clarified, trying to compose himself, "we're like that space captain and Spock, or Batman and the little birdy fellow, or-"

"-Caesar and his super loyal politician friend?" Charlie offered, scowling at him again. "Listen up, Brutus. There's not going to be anything remotely sidekickish between us, unless it involves a frequent union between my foot and your hipbone."

"Look, Charlie, I hate this as much as you do," Buffy sighed, giving Spike a frustrated look for his outburst, "but we've got one last shot at taking Bleakgrave down, and it's tonight. You have every right to feel the way you do, but I can't let you throw our chance away 'cause you're ragey."

A long beat of silence passed, Charlie with her arms crossed and fury boiling off of her like steam, and Buffy looking as though she was one snide comment away from declaring marshal law. It seemed like they were at a stalemate, though Spike was sure that the slayer always got the last word in such matters.

"I know this isn't what you want," the slayer said gently, "And I'm sorry, okay? I really am. But think of Carol." Buffy's big eyes glossed over with empathy, and her golden-skinned fingers covered the top of Charlie's pale ones. "Think of Jessie. Tonight's all we've got."

Charlie's eyes fixed on the floor for a moment, before she finally drew in a deep breath and let it out again. "Alright. He fights," she relented, features hardening once more as she turned her face to Spike. "But understand this. You can roll the dice all you want out there _Willy_ , but you won't pass go and you won't collect forgiveness. Get near me while we're fighting and I'll be the last thing you ever see. And when this is all over…"

"...if I'm still kickin', I'll get gone," Spike promised, hoping to the God of Jilted, Tortured Vampires that his bluff would at least ease some of the wrath in her tone. It was like petting a feral cat.

"You can _get gone_ to hell," she suggested furiously. "Actually, on second thought, find somewhere else. If Bleakgrave sends us all to purgatory, I'd prefer to not see you on a daily basis."

Spike could feel the muscles in his jaw begin to throb. On the one hand, it was good that she was angry. She'd unleash biblical levels of rage on anyone who dared lay a claw or magic spell against her, and it would keep her among the unliving. But on the other (slightly more selfish) hand, Spike very much preferred said rage to be directed elsewhere. He was trying to _help_ for Christ's sake, not scratch the wound deeper, and her inability to see it was beginning to torch his fuse.

Buffy must have sensed the tendrils of frustration that were unfurling in Spike's thoughts because she quickly clapped him on his leather-covered shoulder and began propelling him towards the main room of the shop.

"Alright!" the slayer said, keeping an annoyingly firm pressure on his back, "That's probably enough chit-chat for now. William, why don't we go find you someone else to do?" Her eyes widened. "Some _thing_. Something else."

Spike let himself be pushed all the way to the door before he dug in his feet, twisted out of the slayer's grabby hands and marched himself right back to where he'd started. Charlie regarded him the way one might regard an early morning wake-up call or a sink full of molding dishes. Or perhaps more accurately, someone who had eaten a sizable portion of their ancestors for fun.

"I give up," Buffy grumbled, stalking off to join Willow in the corner.

Standing toe to toe with his progeny, Spike quashed his desire to grab her by the arms and shake her like one of Giles' mystical gourds. "You know," he sputtered, "I'm tryin' to extend the bloody olive branch here, despite the fact that I've been holdin' the short end of it all soddin' week. And all you want to do is drive it into my heart."

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "There's at _least_ two other places I'd like to drive it."

Alright, accusations and blame: probably not on the checklist of things to ease the tension. Bargaining might still be worth a go.

"Look, this, between you and me," he said, motioning back and forth between where they were standing, "I know it's a real bleedin' catastrophe. But we need to let my rumored past uglies be water under the bridge 'til Bleaks gets sorted out."

"You know what's thicker than water?" Charlie asked, her voice colder than he'd ever heard it. "Blood. _My family's_ blood. That's what's running under your stupid bridge, and you have no right to make so little of what you spilled!"

"Well... _you_ have no right to make so little of what's between us," Spike retorted.

"There is nothing! I… I never even liked you."

"That so?" Spike leaned in and narrowed his eyes at her. "Try again, luv. Your pants are startin' to catch."

"This is so much not about us," she snapped, her nose stopping an inch away from his. "There is no us! This is about you, being an evil, lying, murderous-"

"-Separate," Willow commanded. Spike hadn't even seen the witch move, but suddenly she was right beside them, hands twisting in a determined, abrupt motion that gave him the wiggins. He felt the soles of his boots drag across the floor until he was standing several feet apart from Charlie, who looked equally disturbed by Willow's display of power.

"If you two wanna get fighty about this later, go for it, but we've got more important things to do right now," the redhead continued, as though she was scolding a pair of children rather than two fully grown, thoroughly irate vampires. "If this doesn't work, we'll need to get going on the backup plan. Charlie? Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, still staring at Willow uneasily. "I'm ready."

"Good. Go grab that tall bottle from the box," Willow instructed her, keeping her own suspicious, leery eyes on Spike. At the witch's intimidating look, Spike held up his hands in cooperation and retreated towards the main room, stopping in the doorway to lean his shoulder against the moulding. Safety with the added bonus of still having a front row seat. If Red's little experiment, or whatever it was, blew up in her face- and it probably would, at least he'd be out of there before the ceiling collapsed or someone got devoured by a pack of sentient teacups.

The witch slipped something out of her skirt pocket, and Spike had to squint to see what it was. A flat bronze and stone amulet rested between her thumb and forefinger, reflecting more brightly than it should have under the soft lights. Nothing good, that. Neither was the bottle that Charlie handed her, filled to the brim with some kind of deep scarlet sand. What the hell was it? Clay dust, for a golem? Or was it ground cochineal beetle? Hell, the thing could've been full of Kool-Aid mix for all Spike knew.

"So, um, what are we doing, Will?" Buffy asked, voicing Spike's very thoughts. She frowned as Willow uncorked the bottle and carefully sniffed its innards.

"Oh, just an itsy bitsy summoning spell. I wanted to try one last thing before we go."

"Summoning?" the slayer yelped. "We're summoning something?! Shouldn't we wait for Gi-"

"-Shhh!" Willow said, waving an impatient hand at her. "It'll just take a minute but I need to concentrate!"

Buffy froze in place, as though she were trying to decide whether to interfere with the witch's scheme or not. But whatever her hesitation was, trust seemed to eek out a tiny victory. The slayer rubbed the back of her neck anxiously and headed over to stand beside Charlie, though Spike was sure her location choice had less to do with friendship and more to do with the proximity to the large display of weapons on the wall behind her.

Willow moved to the center of the room and cleared her throat.

" _Beatum sit in nomine D'Hoffrynis_ ," she chanted, dumping the sandy red contents of the bottle to form a wide, red sphere. " _Fiat hoc spatium porta ad mundum Arashmaharris_."

-ooOoo-

The room began to quake. Swords and axes rattled against the wall, and the box of magic supplies on the couch jingled like a gypsy's coin belt.

Whatever was coming, it was too late for Red to unring the doorbell.

Spike flinched as lightning began to crackle around the training room, blasting the walls with bursts of hot white and electric purple. A soupy mist rose from the floor, twisting around his boots in oddly shaped coils, and all he could smell was hot ozone and the delicious tang of human fear. He suddenly felt Tara's presence behind him, the girl no doubt alerted by the commotion, but Spike didn't dare take his eyes off the summoning mark.

The noise built to a high, shrill cacophony, and with one final, loud crash of lightning, a bald, horned demon that looked like he'd been locked in someone's deep freezer for a few months too long materialized in the center of the witch's circle. His eyes were black chips of obsidian, and the long wisps of his white beard curled around the collar of his robe. It didn't take an expert in demonology to understand that the demon held enormous power; Spike could sense it rolling off of him in hot, billowing waves.

"Behold, D'Hoffryn, Lord of Arashmahar!" the creature cried, his arms raised in exultation. "He that rends bones from limbs and turns the air to-" the demon's beady gaze shifted to Willow. "Ah! Miss Rosenberg! What a wonderful surprise to see you! And I see you've brought some friends."

"Hello, D'Hoffryn," Willow greeted him.

"I admit, I didn't think I'd be hearing from you quite so soon, but I'm pleased you've called." The demon strode majestically out of the badly charred and melted ring of flooring, and Spike had to crush the little smirk that tried to emerge on his face at the sight of the damage. Giles was going to blow a gasket when he received the next repair bill.

"You've reconsidered my offer," D'Hoffryn said. It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement, and the demon's eyes swept boldly over Willow as though he already knew her answer would please him.

"To become a vengeance demon? Yeah," Willow said with a nervous laugh, "not really on the table at the moment."

The demon's face darkened.

"...but, you know, definitely still in my top three possible career choices," she added quickly. "In the meantime, I sort of have a… a favor to ask?"

"Do you think me so lowly that I would grant a boon to a mortal girl for nothing?" D'Hoffryn growled. "Think again, child. I deal in revenge. Not gifts."

"Well, isn't this your lucky day," Charlie mumbled, a bit too loud to be considered discrete.

The demon turned and studied the dark haired girl with unconcealed interest, taking a long, deliberate sniff in the air. "Oh, you're _definitely_ not human," he decided, his robes swishing as he moved in to take a closer look at her. "What are you?"

"At the moment?" Charlie asked, her chin rising in defiance. "Pissed off. Bitter. Sort of hungry..."

"Charlie's a vampire," Willow explained. "There's this magician guy named Bleakgrave, and he killed her and a whole bunch of her family. And now he's gonna throw most of the Sunnydale population through a portally thing to hell so he can take their souls and become Bleakgrave to the power of infinity. Which gets us to the part where we summoned you… we need your help to stop him."

D'Hoffryn tapped his cheek thoughtfully. "You know, I may be biased, but some hell dimensions are quite lovely in the springtime. Take Arashmahar for instance. It's sunny, the humidity is low, and the daytime temperature generally stays in the mid four hundreds. Perhaps you'd _like_ where this magician sends you."

"Yeah," Buffy deadpanned, "if our skin was made from asbestos and we enjoyed broiling on the porch with a nice, hot glass of flame retardant."

"I do not know what things you are referring to, human," D'Hoffryn sneered, "but if-"

"-We don't want to go to hell!" Charlie objected sharply, "And we didn't summon you to give us the sales spiel for relocating there. So can we please get on with this?" All the energy seemed to deflate out of her after her little burst of temper. She had everyone's full attention, but she swallowed nervously and only had eyes for the old demon. "I wish… that Bleakgrave was dead."

Bloody. Hell.

Spike heard Buffy and Tara's simultaneous intake of breath, and he couldn't help but share the sentiment.

The request seemed safe enough, but Spike knew that vengeance demons had a nasty habit of granting a wish regardless of whether or not the consequences made the wisher worse off. And hadn't Demon Girl caused one of those fun little dimensional rifts before one of the Scooby crew demoted her to human status? The words "be careful what you wish for" should have been matted, framed, and hung in each of their bedrooms after _that_ particular fiasco.

Spike watched D'Hoffryn expectantly, his eyes darting away briefly to scour the room for any sign of change- a sudden disappearance, a shiny new scent, or additions to Giles's non-existent attempt at room decor. But the demon didn't twitch a muscle, and not a thing appeared out of place.

"Those are the words, right?" Charlie asked after a moment had ticked by. "It's why we summoned you."

"I can feel your pain, child," the demon replied, a small measure of kindness infused into his words. "Though it squeezes and crushes like a serpent's tail, I only grant wishes to demons that are of my own making." D'Hoffran paused, glancing at Willow with the eagerness of a dog spying an unguarded holiday ham. "But if Miss Rosenberg was to join my table as a vengeance demon, she would be more than capable of bestowing this most uncreative punishment upon he who has wronged you."

"No!" Tara cried, pushing past Spike and running to her girlfriend. Her arms formed a protective circle around Willow's shoulders. "Y-you can't have her!"

"Nobody's becoming a vengeance demon," Buffy declared, placing herself firmly between D'Hoffryn and the witches. "Doesn't Anya have a vengeancey friend or something?" she asked the girls.

"Yeah, Halfrek," Willow replied, "but I guess she only does kids. It's okay, though, I-"

"-No, Will, it's not going to happen!" Buffy exclaimed. "We'll find some other way."

"Buffy, if you'll just listen-"

"- _No_." Tara's arms tightened. "We won't let you, Willow."

Red's huff of frustration sounded like a long gust of wind.

"That's most unfortunate. I do hope that your deaths won't be too painful," D'Hoffryn simpered, smiling rather cheerfully for someone not getting their way. "Well then, I must be off, shame there's nothing I can do…"

"Will you wait a second!" Willow demanded, pulling free of Tara's embrace and stepping around the slayer. "There is… there is _something_." She glanced at Charlie, giving her an almost imperceptible nod of the head.

"I already told you, I cannot grant the wish," D'Hoffryn said again.

"Not a wish," Charlie agreed. Her eyes fixed on the demon's throat. "Your blood."

If his heart had been beating, Spike was certain he would have heard it thrashing in his ears. "Oh, this is just fuckin' _brilliant_ , Charlie," he heard himself swear. He abandoned his post at the door to advance a few steps in her direction. "Have you gone full-on sack of hammers?! You don't have a bloody inkling what'll happen to you if you wash him down! He's not your run-of-the-mill demon from Willy's, he's halfway up the hill to bein' all-mighty."

"I would just like to reconfirm," Charlie began, turning to inflict a scathing look that curdled the blood in Spike's stomach, "that I don't care. Not about what you say. And even less about what you think."

"Well, you… should," Spike said. "Because you should know that… that I… I already licked him, so he's mine. To eat, that is."

Charlie shut her eyes, and Spike could almost hear the sound of her mentally cursing him. "You don't even _eat demons_."

"Well, yeah, but rules are rules."

Her eyes snapped back open. "And when would you possibly have had time to-"

"-The strange blonde one did not put his tongue on me, and I belong to no other being," D'Hoffryn interrupted her. "Why is it that you request my blood, pretty vampire?

Spike's hands curled into useless fists at his sides.

Attention diverted, Charlie took a cautious, hopeful step closer to where the vengeance demon stood. "Because I'm the can't-fight creature from the no-mojo lagoon at the moment. I _can_ do magic, but only if I drink someone who has it running through them. Demon blood... tends to go down easier than human, and if I drink someone as powerful as you, we've got a chance at stopping Bleakgrave."

"Hmmmph. I thought there was something... different about you," D'Hoffryn said, with an unconvincing, bored yawn. "Still, I don't feel particularly moved to offer up my vital fluids. My deepest apologies."

The demon turned and began gliding at a snail's pace back towards the summoning circle, as though he were preparing to leave. Despite the show of indifference, Spike was sure that Freezer Face was holding out for something more from her. Spike also would've bet his last trio of cigarettes that Charlie wasn't going to let the demon just poof itself back to Brimstone Resort without a bit of gauntlet throwing.

In _four… three… two..._

"I had a human life," Charlie cried out, rushing to D'Hoffryn's side. When he stopped walking, she morphed into her version of game face, eyes aglow with anguish. "I had a marriage, and people that I loved. People that loved me. Bleakgrave's taken everything- my life, my happiness. He's torn my family tree apart, branch by branch, and laughed while they all rotted on the ground."

She pulled a handful of trinkets out of her pocket and held it out towards D'Hoffryn, and Spike craned his neck to see what she was offering. A silver wedding ring, a pebble, a knotted piece of twine, and a tarnished brass whistle rested within the nest her fingers made.

"This is what I have left of those I loved, and fits into the palm of my hand." Her fingers closed into a fist over the keepsakes. "Yet you tell me that I don't deserve retribution for what I've lost. Isn't it your _job_ to help avenge those who've suffered? If you won't kill Bleakgrave, then the very least you can do is grant me a drink from you. Let me have my own vengeance so I can finally have some peace."

No one in the room dared to breathe. The smoking portal that D'Hoffryn had teleported through let off a little hiss.

After barely a moment of deliberation, the ancient demon shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Oh, why the hell not? You've made a good argument, girl, and quite frankly I'm curious to see how this will all turn out."

Charlie reached out and touched his arm. "Thank you," she whispered.

Well, wasn't this going to be a plentiful cask of fun? Spike decided he needed to sit down before he began testing the limits of his biting impairment. He slumped himself onto the bench by the door.

"Do not drink too deep, child of the dark," the demon cautioned Charlie, rolling up one of his wide, brown sleeves. "You may be immortal, but even the undying have their limits. There is a savage fire that runs through my veins."

"Then my determination will be the wood that keeps it burning," Charlie murmured, turning his palm skywards and caressing the inside of the demon's pale, bony wrist with her fingertips. "I won't fail, whatever the cost."

Locating a tender spot, Charlie pressed her mouth to the demon's skin and without even a whisper of warning, she sunk in her teeth.

D'Hoffryn let out a groan, almost as if he reveled in the agony of her bite, and Spike fought off a fresh urge to pummel the ancient being back down the hole he'd slithered out of. Bloody figured that a vengeance demon would be getting off on a bit of fang n' drain. Spike gripped the edge of the bench as D'Hoffryn's head rolled back in pleasure, his dark eyes relaxing into contented slits.

Spike was sure he was about to witness a one-ingredient recipe for disaster, but all he could do was grind his teeth and mentally assault the magical feed bag with every single weapon in the training room. At least there were plenty of options so far as demonslaughter went. There were swords. There were throwing stars. There was a nasty specimen of a Ngbaka knife. And Spike was fairly certain that the Delicious Wonder wouldn't survive a flail to the skull, no matter how vengeanceable the tosser was.

He became so preoccupied with his homicidal visions, that he actually jumped a little when he discovered that Charlie was watching him.

Though _watch_ wasn't exactly the right word for it.

Her eyes sought to burn Spike with their intensity as the muscles in her throat worked to swallow the demon's blood. And though her mouth was occupied, her eyes conveyed the message loud and clear. I'd rather be sucking the lifeforce out of _you_ , they said. _I'd rather be bleeding you dry._

At first, he tried to meet her glare with dispassionate interest. Cool-as-you-please, he slipped one precious cigarette out of his duster pocket, flicked open his zippo, and lit the thing to keep himself from vamping out in fury. But it didn't take long for him to become unsettled by her stare, and instead, he zeroed in on other parts of her as she fed like a relentless, thirsty lioness; the way her fingers dug into the soft flesh of the demon's limb, the flattened shape of her top lip as it pressed against the mottled blue forearm. Of course, eying her fingers and lips inevitably made him remember how tightly they had been wrapped around his-

 _Wait_.

It happened so smoothly that Spike almost thought he was going insane. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Not seconds ago, Charlie had been her typical vampiric hues; all bloodless cheeks and pale pink lips. And Spike had watched as something the color of blue-tinged lilacs swept over her skin like a fever. Even her irises, once like sun-drenched summer grass, now shone as cool and teal as the Mediterranean. He stared at her, unblinking. A pile of ashes dropped onto his knee, and he realized that his cigarette had burned all the way down to the filter.

Dropping the hot stub with a muttered curse, Spike viewed the scene before him with a growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong. He glanced away to survey the other girls standing nearby. All were watching Charlie drink with a sort of horrified fascination, but none of them seemed to detect the subtle changes that were occurring to her appearance.

"So we're using Mr. Vengeance to juice our battle spell," Buffy remarked, leaning back against the brick wall. "Ask me how excitedless I am."

"Is it a perfect plan? No," Willow admitted, "But is it the best chance for Bleakgrave to get his just deserts? Also, no, but we're out of options."

Buffy's lips twitched. "Well, at least someone is getting desserts out of this."

"And the rest of us will never want dessert again," said Xander, making both an entrance into the room and such a disgusted face that Spike could only hope that it would permanently stick. The boy twirled a set of keys on his forefinger and cleared his throat mockingly. "Robey demon: he's the other _other_ white meat," he said in a TV announcer voice.

More footsteps sounded towards the training room.

"Oh," Anya exclaimed, breezing through the doorway and coming to a dead stop behind her boyfriend.

"Anyanka," D'Hoffryn said, greeting her with a nod.

The girl clasped her hands together and stared at the demon with huge doe eyes. "Hello, D'Hoffryn. I know it's been a long time, but how have you- _hey!_ Is she biting you? Charlie! That's very inconsiderate and uncalled for!"

"Wait, you know each other?" Xander asked, now studying D'Hoffryn with an expression that bordered on jealousy. "Like an Olaf-the-troll kind of know or..."

"More of a you're-hired and on-the-job-training kinda know," Anya admitted.

Xander blinked. "The snack that isn't smiling back was your _boss_?"

"I'm very employable. Even Giles said that I go above and beyond."

"... _the limits of appropriate customer service,_ was the rest of that glowing accolade if I'm remembering correctly," said Giles, the last to appear in the crowd of newcomers. "What in tarnation is going on?" he asked, growing concerned as his eyes took in the red sand, the melted concrete, and then finally the demon picnic-for-one in the center of the room.

Spike stood and skulked over to the watcher, grateful that someone else seemed as troubled with the turn of events as him. "Let's see… first, Red, over there, decided to summon D'Hairless, CEO of Revenge, Incorporated," he explained with a scowl, "and then Charlie Girl decided to drink him like blueberry Squeezit."

"For magic! And the drinking was completely consensual," Buffy added, cringing as Charlie finally pulled her fangs out of D'Hoffryn's forearm.

Just about everyone in the room found something else to look at as the vampire began licking the sapphire-colored blood off the corners of her mouth. When she was finished, she stared interestedly at the two spots that still oozed a little from the demon's skin. D'Hoffryn rolled his sleeve back down.

The watcher fixed his bespectacled gaze on Willow. "You summoned a _vengeance demon_?"

"Well, technically, no, I summoned the lower being who rules the vengeance demons," the witch corrected him. Her proud grin faltered as Giles continued to regard her in stony silence. "But that doesn't really matter. What matters is that Charlie's gonna be running on a full tank tonight."

"You foolish girl!" the watcher reprimanded her. He whipped his glasses off so quickly that Spike felt the movement in the air. "Do you have any idea what might have happened had you uttered that incantation wrong?"

"But I didn't, did I? I'm powerful, Giles, and I know what I'm doing. Maybe you should be thanking me instead of getting your scold on."

A vein on the watcher's temple started to do a fascinating bulgy thing, but he still managed to keep his voice even. "I'm merely explaining that you need to think more carefully about everyone else's safety before unleashing such a spell."

"Yeah," Willow scoffed, "'cause we're all gonna be really safe tonight when Bleakgrave and his minions are trying to kill us, right? What was your big idea to get Charlie's powers back, Professor High Horse?"

To that, Giles had no answer. "You have no way of knowing what this will do to her," he said, his worried gaze settling back on Charlie.

"She's fine! She's better than fine," Willow said. "Right Charlie? How are ya feelin'? Ready for a bit of Bleakgrave free-for-all?"

At the sound of the magician's name, the vampire's eyes flared a glittering blue and faint lines of electricity began to snap at the tips of her fingers. The girl Spike knew seemed mostly out to lunch, with something else at fighting for the wheel beneath that Charlie-shaped shell. Maybe it was a distilled, angry little piece of her, but still… one more sip of vengeance blood, Spike thought as he circled around her to get a better look at the changes, might have left her stumbling and foaming at the mouth.

"I'll wipe Bleakgrave's fingerprints off the face of this earth and make him know pain far worse than death," Charlie snarled. "He'll burn and bleed and wither into a shell of his former existence before he sinks into the ground and becomes the nothing he is. No one will even _think_ his name once I'm finished with him."

D'Hoffryn might have been grinning, but the rest of the group looked like a washed-up pod of gaping gill monsters. The only thing that infiltrated the dead silence was a nervous, audible swallowing sound, courtesy of the whelp.

Charlie stared back at the wide-eyed group of Scoobies, before her eyebrows finally drew together in puzzlement. "What?"

"You got something," Xander said, pointing to his own face, "right th… you know what, it's not important."

"He's trying to tell you that there's some D'Hoffran on your nose," Anya informed her. "It's blue. And kind of distracting. And what's up with the finger voltage?"

"See?" Willow said to Giles with a weak smile. "She's great."

"It seems I've fulfilled my end of this bargain," D'Hoffryn announced. "We shall all meet again, Yekk willing. May you water the battlefield with blood and torment."

"Oh, don't you worry," Xander chuckled anxiously. "We'll be watering it with _something_."

The demon ignored the boy. "Make him suffer, child," he said, turning to Charlie and running his long, yellowish talons underneath her chin. "Make the magician pay for what he's done."

And just as Spike was ready to rush the ancient demon and start ripping off his overly-intimate fingers one by one, cooperation be damned, D'Hoffryn raised his right arm. Thunder echoed off the walls and the creature disappeared in a tidy wisp of smoke.

Relieved that at least one part of the blood-sucking fiasco was over, Spike wound his way back to the bench and sagged into it. He snuck another glance at Charlie. She stood tall, full of fire and vinegar and a few pints of blue demon blood, and the fear in her eyes had run off screaming into the night. She was a bloody Valkyrie. And she hated more than just his guts.

So why was he still feeling like he needed to protect her when it looked like she could power half of Sunnydale's electrical grid with her littlest finger?

Catching his stare, Charlie hissed at him.

Oh. Right. Because he was a moron, that's why.

But if there were two things Spike was still certain of, it was that he loved her more than unlife itself, and that she had returned his feelings before Bleakgrave stole everything away. And love wasn't the kind of thing that should fall between the cracks or get kicked aside at the first stumbling block. When you had it, you latched onto it with both fangs. And that was exactly what Spike planned on doing. He'd prove his devotion. He'd find a way to fix the forgetting spell and set everything back to right. He just needed to make sure they both survived Bleakgrave's party at ground zero.

"Well," Giles said, his voice sounding overly loud in the quiet that had fallen. "Now that the _ruler of the vengeance demons_ has seen fit to evacuate the premises, will someone please tell me why there's an ice cream truck parked outside?"

* * *

 _A/N: Phew. Hello my lovelies! Thanks for all your wonderful feedback and for sticking with me! Now... WHO'S READY FOR A GINORMOUS FIGHT? :)_


	44. Chapter 44- Carpe Noctem, Part 1

_A/N: Are you ready? Prepare thineself with appropriate music. Listen to the very Buffyish Fire Catcher by NINJA TRACKS. Kay? Kay. ;)_

* * *

"Will you _please_ remove your elbow from my spleen!"

Spike glanced down from his perch on top of the ice cream truck's freezer box, grateful that he'd claimed his isolated seat before anyone else had beaten him to it. With the exception of Xander, who'd taken it upon himself to play chauffeur, the rest of the Scoobies were packed onto the sticky floor like livestock on the way to the slaughterhouse. A fairly apt metaphor, Spike thought humorlessly.

With a scowl, Anya scooted a little further away from the irritated watcher, and Spike noticed that it was decidedly _not_ in the direction of the other vampire onboard. Couldn't blame her on that front.

 _That_ vampire sat at the rear of the truck, eerily still as though she were a piece of statuary. Charlie's shoulders pressed up against the back hatch door, and her unfamiliar, pale blue eyes stared straight ahead. No expression on her face gave away her mood, but her hands sang out the tale. The linen-white, slender fingers that clenched tightly over her knees were tipped with nails bitten almost down to the quick, and the dried, bluish blood underneath them was the only thing that had eased their trembling. She'd tipped the scales from fear to fury, and he could practically _hear_ her sizzling, barely contained anger.

"Why couldn't we take Mr. Giles's car?" Spike heard Tara whisper. In the dark, her face was ashen and worried.

"Trojan horse thingamajig," Willow replied. "We can get close to the field without making the ooglie booglies suspicious."

The tires of the truck suddenly squealed as Xander hit the brakes, though the boy's reflexes weren't quick enough to avoid colliding with a tall row of speed bumps at high velocity. Weapons lurched, posteriors bounced, and a sugary hailstorm of push pops and bubblegum tape from the overhead storage pelted the passengers below.

"Oi!" Spike snarled towards the driver's seat. "Easy on the gas pedal, you nit. We're in a bloody ice cream truck, not Days of Thunder."

Xander didn't take his eyes off the road. "I'm getting us there on time."

"No, no. You're getting us clobbered by the inventory," Giles corrected him.

The watcher was nervously twisting a thick bronze ring on his forefinger, and Spike opened his mouth to mock him for picking such a fine time to get stylish. Then he recalled _what_ the ring was- one of Bleakgrave's, wasn't it? If his magically butchered knowledge served, it was the very one, in fact, that Charlie had pinched from the Magic Box after first arriving in Sunnydale. It was more likely a necessary component to a spell than Rupert's unsuccessful attempt at accessorizing. Spike aborted his taunt to keep watch out the front window instead.

It wasn't much longer before the high school appeared through the windshield, all dark and foreboding, with the intense lights of the football field creating a roofline-shaped halo behind it. And out front… well, it was a typical Sunnydale celebration times a thousand. The school lawn was a hive of activity, and the parking lot overflowed with busses, cars, and even the occasional taxi. A dozen vehicles ahead, a cop wearing a neon orange vest directed traffic to park further down the street, and Xander crept to a halt in the line behind a packed jeep of students.

Anya scooched forward and craned her head towards the front of the truck. "Are you doing okay, honey? You're being unusually quiet and I'm already freaked as it is."

"Not so much with the okay. I know I've been driving around all night and acting like everything is fine," Xander admitted with a sigh, "but I need you guys to know that deep down, inside my seat cushion, there's a really sharp spring digging into my buttcheek."

"Thanks for the PSA, Xand," Buffy said, with an unsubtle glance at Giles's wristwatch, "but there's also about to be a really sharp _drop in the population_ when Bleakgrave digs into Sunnydale's roster. Isn't there another street we could take?"

"Nobody likes a back floor driver, Buffy," Anya sniffed.

The slayer rolled her eyes. "Nobody likes a big-"

"-Uh, guys… we've got a sitch here..." Xander interrupted, all the blood draining from his face.

"Oh god… did someone see us?" Buffy asked, scrambling up with Giles and cautiously peeking out the passenger side window that Xander was gaping at.

"You could say that..."

"Good lord!"

"Oh no... _this is bad_. What do we do?!"

Spike shifted his weight to the side and peered at what had the others quaking in their trainers. He snorted in amusement. A few snot-nosed brats had gathered on the sidewalk next to the truck, clutching either wrinkled dollar bills or their parents' shirt cuffs in their little hands. The street lights glinted off the drool in their mouths as they read the dessert menu on the truck's side. And just down the street, another cluster of pint-sized consumers were making a beeline towards them.

Willow snuck behind the slayer to get a look, then giggled at the scene. "Oh, that's no big. Easy fix," she said, snapping her fingers. "Dissimulo."

Outside, the whole group of pedestrians blinked like they'd been flash-photographed. Several of the kids looked around as though confused, but most merely followed their blank-eyed parental units as they wandered back into the crowds of people, the prospect of frozen novelties forgotten. Ahead of the truck, the line of vehicles began to move again, and Xander stepped hurriedly on the gas.

Anya glared at the witch. "Couldn't we have made the transactions first? There were like ten paying customers you just dispersed."

"We don't even have ice cream," Buffy admitted. "We had to clean out the freezer to make space for all the weapons."

"Oh, but who needs those when you could have spending money for that _upcoming trip to hell?_ " The edge in Willow's voice wasn't lost on anyone.

"Man," Xander mused over the sudden extra tension, "I feel like magic can solve any problem. Wanna send people away? Magic. Have to stop a hell portal? Magic."

"Need to teach an unsupportive boyfriend a lesson?" Anya added in agreement. "Exploding penis pustules."

The truck hit the curb as Xander hung a wobbly left down a side-street.

The road paralleled the side of the school, and cars were parked nose to bumper along the edges for as far as Spike could see. Driving all the way down to a no parking sign, Xander eased the truck over the sidewalk, squeaked past a fire hydrant, and pulled up onto the lawn underneath a tree.

"Okay, stop numero uno," he announced, turning off the ignition. "Please make sure to take all your personal magic items with you and head for the nearest exit."

While the majority of the truck's passengers began collecting their things, Spike slid off the freezer, side-stepped the witches, and bent to unlatch the back hatch. As he grasped the handle at the bottom of the door, he felt Charlie stiffen next to him. Doing his best to ignore her reaction, he shoved the door panel up halfway and surveyed the vicinity. Nothing smacked of immediate danger, and so Spike dropped to his knees beside her.

"Charlie-"

"-Stay the hell away from me."

She was finally looking at him, but her eyes were full of loathing. For the beat of a few seconds, everything else fell aside, and there was nothing but her inside the truck or anywhere in the world. D'Hoffryn's blood still lingered on her skin, splattered like freckles around her mouth, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Couldn't even bring himself to lash out at her, as frustrated as he was. What would she do if he wove his fingers into her hair, perhaps for the last time? If he pressed his lips to her forehead? No. He already knew. One touch and he'd be mixing with the spilled Fun Dip on the floor.

 _It'll be alright_ , he wanted to say. _I won't let anything happen to you_. But of course, there was no way she'd hear his message, whether he spoke it aloud or tried to convey it with a gentle brush of his hand. And before he could speak or act on any of his rash impulses, Charlie was already ducking under the door and jumping nimbly to the grass below. Willow and Tara slipped by him too, their hands entwined in a way that made Spike ache with bitter jealousy.

The slayer handed Giles a backpack. "Are you sure you've got this?" she asked him.

"Sound trumpets, let our bloody colors wave," the watcher answered softly.

"And either victory, or else the microwave," Spike finished, narrowing his eyes as a figure in a dark trench coat evaporated out of the murky shadows of the parking lot. He groaned aloud. The HMS Boresome was returning to port.

And with the Poof's arrival came Charlie's abrupt departure, her stride quick and purposeful as she hurried away from the truck. She didn't acknowledge the old vampire's presence with a word or a glance, merely passed right by him, but not before letting a tiny blast of electricity escape her fingers as she brushed against his sleeve.

"What the hell?" Angel hissed, his hand wrapping around his bicep where the bolt had struck him.

Stopping to wait for the rest of her group a fair distance away, Charlie crossed her arms and leaned a hip against the side of a parked convertible. Spike raised an eyebrow. _Somebody's itching to settle a score or two._

"She's kinda postally at the moment," Buffy said apologetically, crouching down in the doorway as Angel drew near. "In an electric, had-a-vengeance-demon-for-dinner kind of way. Keep a wide berth."

At the sight of his grandsire's pained grimace, Spike smiled his first genuine smile of the night. "Top of the evenin', Angelstakes. How's the shoulder?"

Angel let out a great, heaving sigh. "Yeah, I can tell this fight's gonna go _really_ well." He hauled himself into the truck before turning to look down at Giles and the witches. "Keep to the east side of the stadium. There's some woods that should give you a bit of distance and cover from the fighting if you need it."

"Alright," the watcher replied, stepping forward to address the whole group. "And bare in mind that there should be no attempt to go after Bleakgrave once he's started opening the portal. Only once we've completed the spell will it be safe to harm him. If his life ends before our spell is finished… well, suffice to say _we'll_ be finished. The portal would stay open, _indefinitely_." The man cast a tight smile inside the truck. "Good luck, all of you."

And with that, Giles yanked the door back down and Spike's eyes readjusted to the enfolding darkness once more.

"So," Buffy said, glancing at Angel. "What's it looking like out there?"

The vampire rubbed one hand against his neck, and Spike noticed that his knuckles were raw and bleeding. "Not great, but it's fightable. He's got a turnout in the thousands, mostly seated in the bleachers. As far as I can tell, there's a few hundred armed demons hiding out and they've got the stadium surrounded on all sides. When the portal opens, word is that they'll pull a Stonewall Jackson, keep the humans right where Bleakgrave wants them."

"Well, we more or less figured that's how it would go. We'll need to keep an escape route open for people while Giles and the girls do the mojo thing. It'll be hard, but we have to try." The slayer looked soberly at the rest of the truck's occupants. "So, before we do this, any last questions?"

"Yeah," Xander said, swiveling in his seat. "What steps should we take if this thing really starts going downhill?"

"Giant ones," Buffy replied dryly. "Away from the portal."

"Why don't we just get everyone out _now_?" Anya asked. "You know… _before_ the big sucky portal thing opens?"

"Because Bleakgrave will be at his weakest while he's keeping it open," the slayer explained. "If we try to foil his plans too soon, it'll be just like every other time we've tried to stop him; impossible."

Xander nodded, reached for the keys, and restarted the truck. "Then let's go kick some weak magician derrière."

Spike felt the tires underneath shift as the vehicle backed up, and he grabbed the shelf overhead to steady himself.

"Alright. Xander and Anya have their thing. William, Angel, we're teaming," Buffy said. She hefted open the lid of the freezer and frowned as cold, white steam billowed up into the air. "Who wants a stake-cicle?"

Peering inside the box, Spike noted with pleasure that it was filled to the brim with sharp steel and pointed wood. Unnecessary extras for a vampire, sure, but there was no way he'd be turning down a battleaxe or two just because it was overkill. Overkill was the sodding main idea.

"Now this," Spike said with a grin, "looks like fun." Reaching in, he selected a sword that was wedged between a pile of stakes and a machete. The freezing cold hilt fit nicely in his hand and the balance on it was nearly perfect. He slipped a dagger into his boot and a few stakes into the pocket of his duster for good measure. Beside him, Angel and Buffy stuffed weapons into every available crevice of their clothing.

Just as Buffy shut the lid of the freezer, the brakes of the truck squeaked as Xander eased it to a halt. "Next stop," the boy said.

"Ready?" the slayer asked, her eyes searching out her vampire companions.

Spike could feel deep in his bones that something bad was on the horizon, but still he craved the fight so badly his teeth itched. For days, he'd been chained down and cooped up with barely a decent spot of violence, and he intended on making up for lost time. Win or lose, he'd prove his worth to Charlie before the night was over, and hack through his share of Bleakgrave's minions while doing it.

"Green light, go, Slayer. Let's end this poxy bugger."

-ooOoo-

The powerful odor of buttery popcorn and steaming hot dogs was almost as impressive as the sound that ricocheted off the exterior walls of the high school. The cheers and voices coming from the stadium thundered like hail on the world's largest tin roof, the tune of the marching band barely discernible beneath all the chaotic noise. It was enough to give anyone a migraine, but in true vampiric fashion, the assault of human crowd activity on Spike's senses only made him hungry. At least certain slayers wouldn't be able to hear his stomach rumbling over all the commotion.

Tailing just behind Buffy and Angel, he caught bits and pieces of the perfectly mowed football field between the each of the stands they snuck by. No sign of Bleaks. There wasn't any sign of the failure-to-thrive quarterbacks either. But like a codependent, bad penny, Harmony had turned up at the distant edge of the field, dressed in pink velour and ready to lend a pair of fangs to her magic boyfriend's slaughter party. And of course, lurking underneath each set of bleacher scaffolding were the grotesque silhouettes of Bleakgrave's demonic mercenaries. Sunnydale High was the place to be for anyone undead and evil.

"The west side is slightly less crowded, and I already found us a good vantage spot," Angel whispered.

"Sounds good to me," the slayer replied, letting him take the lead.

They continued to creep along the perimeter of the school for a few minutes, letting the shadows swallow them until Angel finally slowed to a halt. The vampire jerked his head at the closest scaffold, and Spike followed his line of sight. Huh. There was nothing underneath the seating. Not a monster. Not a human merc. Not even some slutty cheerleader-type taking advantage of the darkness to further cement her status as class tart.

Buffy frowned. "Weird. The rest were all demonful. Where'd they all go?"

Angel shrugged, a hint of smugness tugging at his lips. "Had some time to kill."

"Seems like you killed more than just time," the slayer observed, eyebrows edging towards her hairline.

"Yeah, yeah," Spike grunted. "Good on you, Ranger Reid. Now can we get with the program before the program gets us? Show's about to start. Can feel it."

Both the slayer and the dark haired vampire sent him a dubious look.

"My vamp sense is tingling," Spike said defensively.

"Your vamp sense?" Buffy snorted. "Seriously? Did you get bit by a radioactive mosquito?"

"No, _that_ pleasure belonged to Angel's get, now didn't it?"

The comment was effective enough to both shut the slayer up _and_ make her study the ground with glowing embarrassment. Satisfied that his barb had nicked a sore spot, Spike turned and prowled towards the undefended scaffolding without bothering to wait for either of them.

Carefully sliding the blade of his sword between his belt and jeans, he leapt up and grasped one of the metal poles, using his arms and the cross beams to lever himself skywards. When he arrived at the top, he swung a leg over the metal railing and stepped onto the highest bleacher row. It was jam-packed full of pulsing, hot bodies, and no one bothered to spare more than a cursory glance in his direction.

Not for the first time, Spike wondered if he could get away with a taste, even if it was a quick catch-and-release thing. It was fair. A little pre-payment from humankind on account of saving their collective arses. Those awful head pains caused by his spat with the slayer had to be fluke, or something specific to dealing with her. _Had_ to be. But by the time Spike had set his sights on a tasty neck below, Buffy and Angel were already clamoring over the rail to join him. Experimental Bite Night was going to have to wait.

At least the vantage point was worth the climb, Spike decided as he surveyed the boisterous celebration in front of him. In the almost-daylight glow of the floodlights, the field seemed an endless, fuzzy, lime-colored carpet, and the bleacher stands had become a living sea of red and gold flags and handmade paper banners. Looking straight ahead, past the confines of stadium, Spike could see a bit of wilderness. And just at the edge of the woods, with his enhanced vision, he could make out the tiny circle of candle flames and the group that surrounded them.

"For a weaponless party of four, they're sailing a bit close to the wind, don't you think?" Spike complained.

The slayer pinned him with an all-knowing look. "Stop worrying about Charlie. We'll be the ones leaping into the melee. They'll be... completely melee-adjacent."

It was then that the slightest of breezes tickled Spike's nose, bringing with it a scent that couldn't be mistaken for anything else.

"Ah, what did I tell you?" he said triumphantly to his companions. "The helmet brigade just arrived."

"You can see them from here?" Buffy asked, turning to peek over the railing.

"Can smell them from here. Surprised _you_ can't."

"God, it's the worst, isn't it?" Angel curled his lip with disgust.

Spike scrunched up his nose. "S'like twenty canisters of putrid body spray."

"All of which have names like _Thrill_ , or _Tough Swagger_."

" _Manly-Man,_ " Spike added with a smirk.

Angel snickered. " _Assault Charges_."

"Hey, Romy and Michelle, the bonding is cute, but can it wait for the post-non-apocalypse?"

Both vampires scowled at each other.

"-We weren't-"

-Pfft, _bonding,_ Slayer? _Please_."

And then all conversation was put on hold, because sure enough, a river of spandex-wearing nancy boys began leaking through the main entrance to the stadium. The crowd began to cheer as the Razorback football team raced across a freshly-made, crimson field runner, their polished helmets glimmering as they acknowledged the townspeople with waves and grins. One of the players hefted a giant trophy into the air as he ran.

Spike chuckled. Pillocks, all of them. Didn't even realize their talentless lineup had sod-all to do with their win. A group of cheerleaders joined the boys, doing a vigorous choreography of flips and jumps as they fluttered their yellow pompoms around. The marching band played some sort of horrendous, drumful victory music, and it didn't take a vampire's ears to pick out the tuba player's bad case of musical Tourette's. The Pride of the Southland, it wasn't.

"And somehow, the school band still has more awards than the football team," Buffy muttered.

"Could let Bleaks polish off the brass section 'fore we start with the rescue mission," Spike suggested.

The slayer glared at him.

All of a sudden, the tall floodlights around the stadium began to dim. An excited hush fell over the field as the band marched back to the sidelines and the football players found seats in a reserved front row. Spike could hear it before he felt it- that quaking, ground-tremblage that never followed with anything good. Directly below him, the ice cubes in someone's plastic cup of cola began clicking together. And then, gradually, the bleachers started to shake.

"Damn," the slayer said, reaching into her coat for something. Probably a weapon, but Spike wouldn't have blamed her if it was a dose of Dramamine. "I had Magical Mister Mistoffel-Sleaze pegged for the pre-show type, but I guess he's more straight to businessy."

"Hang on," Spike said, casting his eyes around the field. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that Bleakgrave couldn't help himself from making some sort of grand entrance. It was like some sort of magical mental disorder. The man couldn't do anything until he'd dropped some mouths and stolen himself a full round of applause or several.

There.

In the very center of the stadium, a dozen or so narrow structures had begun rising up from the ground, only a few feet tall at first, and then quickly soaring higher than the loftiest seat in the complex.

"Whoa," Buffy whispered.

Clumps of grass and dirt dropped away to reveal shining gold and deeply carved filigree as the things twisted and twirled like octopus tentacles. And as they rose, the golden shapes began to twine around themselves, flattening and expanding until they'd formed a giant disc that left most of the arena in shadow. Silent as death, the thing then sunk back down to the earth, leaving a shining, circular platform lodged in the center of the field.

A collective gasp arose from the audience, and all around him, Spike heard whispers of astonishment and delight.

And finally, in a stereotypical puff of smoke, a figure appeared in the middle of the gold stage. A heavy cape swathed the man's shoulders in maroon velvet, and underneath, Spike caught flashes of metallic, embroidered silk.

Bleakgrave.

Gaudy, as always.

Lifting his top hat, the magician gave the stadium attendees an over-the-top bow. "Good evening, my fine citizens of Sunnydale," his deep voice reverberated through the PA system. "I'm beyond thrilled that so _many_ of you were able to come out for this… most… _momentous_ occasion."

A cheer ran through the bleachers that nearly burst Spike's eardrums.

"Yeah, I bet he's thrilled," Buffy mumbled. "It's a soul-you-can-eat buffet."

"Tonight, you are all going to witness history in the making," Bleakgrave continued over the shouts and hurrahs. "In fact, you're going to be a part of it."

"Go Razorbacks!" A cheerleader yelled, and the crowd burst into applause again.

"Yes, those... ah, Knifebacks were quite… _something_ ," the magician said, holding up his arm to quiet the stadium. "And I'll deal with them in just a moment, but first, I'd like to show you a sight that you've never seen before, and will never see again. What do you say?"

"I don't suppose _no_ would be an option?" Angel asked, his words mostly drowned out by the affirming roar of the crowd.

A shudder ran up Spike's neck as Bleakgrave knelt and placed his hands on the edge of the platform, the hum of dark power palpable even at a distance. No turning back now.

It was the wind that changed first. Soft and still drenched in the scents of fast food vendors and human hormones, it brushed Spike's cheek with a growing sense of urgency. And then a stale, underlying odor began to ripen from within it.

Brimstone.

Ashes.

Hell.

The back of Spike's jacket began to flap against his shins in warning.

Below, the magician continued to hunch over his golden stage, uttering incantations too low to be heard through the PA. A thin orange line, glowing like volcanic lava, traced its way around the circumference of the platform, stopping once it had formed a full circle. The middle of the stage shimmered and disappeared, leaving a gaping hole so bright it stung Spike's eyes.

As the breeze began to pick up even more, something in the mood of the audience also shifted. It was more subtle than fear. Spike could hear their hearts still beating at a normalish rate, but their clapping slowed, their cries of wonder became a little quieter. The residents of Sunnydale may have possessed the Lifetime Achievement award for see no, hear no, pretend no evil, but it was clear that even _they_ could sense incoming hot water.

For his part, Bleakgrave now seemed far too distracted by his own labors to notice any change in the affection of his crowd. Still leaving one hand on the golden surface, the man climbed off the stage and stood on the grass below. He then gave a hasty nod towards an end zone, and Spike saw a fluffy pink stick of fangs and blonde hair go bouncing out of the crowd and towards the main exit. The proverbial shit was about to meet the proverbial fan.

"Think it's time for Bleaks to confront the music," Spike said, clenching the pommel of his sword.

Buffy grimaced. "Can he just lay down the boogie and _play_ the music until he dies instead?"

"A nice thought," Angel said weakly, staring down at the field. "But it's a little too late for that."

Around the entire stadium, a double wall of demons had formed, blocking off every safe passage out. Some of the monsters walked. Some of them crawled. Some of them burrowed up from below. The largest of the demons blocked the widest corridor out to the parking lot. Spike lifted an eyebrow as a six hundred pound Chirago demon let out a roar that sounded like a jet turbine.

The shrieks of terror began immediately. Entire scaffolds threatened to tip over as people began to scramble and push at each other in an effort to get to the ground. Humans didn't have a lick of sense, Spike thought as a man in a school football jersey trampled over his boots while running towards the stairs. Already, the demons who comprised the inner ring were tightening around the inside of the arena like a noose, forcing the humans to keep close to the portal. Probably would've been safer for them to stay seated and wait it out.

"I'm going to be needing some volunteers," came Bleakgrave's voice over the speakers. "The faster you step right up to the stage, _the sooner it'll all be over_."

"You first, wanker," Spike muttered, going still as his ears picked up on what sounded an awful lot like a revving engine.

The noise was quickly replaced by that of screeching tires, and then a very welcome sight came barreling through the demons like they were bowling pins. The ice cream truck cleared the main exit in one pass, leaving a gaping hole and a pile of dead and dazed monsters on either side of it. At least for a minute or two, the barricade was down.

"Right on time, Xander," the slayer said with a smile, her eyes tracking the vehicle as it slowed to a stop mid-field.

"This is an emergency! Um, obviously. Please head to the closest clear exit!" The boy announced over the truck's megaphone. "Repeat, this is a very big emergency!"

"Alright, that's our cue," Buffy said, watching as the Sunnydale residents began to bottleneck the newly-made opening. "Stay close, and keep the exit open! When Willow gives us the signal, we'll go after Bleakgrave! Time to presto, chango." With one last tender look at Angel, the slayer turned and vaulted over the side of the railing.

Angel's eyes flashed, his brow bone thickening and dropping towards the bridge of his nose as he followed Buffy over the scaffold. With a grin, Spike shook himself into game face. He pulled his sword free from his belt, surged onto the hand railing, and slid the length of it to the first row of seats. Hopping off at the bottom, he landed in absolute mayhem.

All around Spike, people screamed and shoved, running as fast as their human legs could carry them towards safety. Past the never-ending tide of people, Spike could see that the injured demons were starting to rally, though Buffy and Angel were already working on whittling their numbers down. Taking a firm grip on his sword, Spike ran with the flow of panicked humans and took a defensive position opposite the slayer.

Some vile little bastard, an undead thing with a rat tail and talons scuttled in close, hissing and snapping at Spike's ankles.

"Come and get it, little beasty!" Spike taunted. One flick of his blade and Ratty was in two separate pieces.

"Grappler demon behind you," Angel warned him. Sure enough, an enormous grey lout was lumbering towards Spike, its sharp tusks curling out from its lower lip. "Careful. He's got the strength of a two-ton boulder."

"Smarts of one too," Spike replied, spying a Polgara sneaking around behind it. "And isn't that thoughtful, he brought you a friend."

Angel's eyes swept over the second demon, pausing at the bone spurs jutting out of its wrists. "Just my type."

"You take Shish-Kafists and I'll take Wally Walrus?"

"Deal."

Spike twirled his sword in his hand and smiled nastily at the approaching behemoth. "You heard the vamp, Walrus Boy. Time to dance."


	45. Chapter 45- Carpe Noctem, Part 2

The fight became a blur.

Kick.

Strike.

Deflect.

Spike was on autopilot, slaughtering demons as efficiently as he could. Blood dripped from countless locations on his body and his arms were beginning to ache from swinging the sword, but he didn't dare stop to rest. All around him, the stadium was a bloody symphony of battle sounds; humans screamed, weapons clashed, opponents grunted. The wind howled so fiercely that the bleachers rattled like snare drums. And at every pause between enemies, Spike glanced beyond the field to make sure the Scooby mojo group was still intact and mojoing.

Four microscopic heads still gathered around pinpricks of candlelight in the distance, unseen by any foe on the battleground. Charlie was still safe, then. With a breath of relief, Spike turned his attention back to the situation at hand.

Half of the crowd had escaped, most scampering out on their own two meat-sticks, but Spike had also seen a bunch crawl into the back of the ice cream truck for evacuation. The vehicle's windshield was long gone and brightly hued viscera coated the exterior from the dented doors to the accordioned hood. One dead, orangish demon with a forehead horn had been sprawled on top of the roof for the past three trips in and out of the stadium, and Spike wasn't sure if anyone else had even _noticed,_ let alone tried to get the thing off _._ Still, he had to hand it to the whelp; Xander was doing a bang-up job of using vehicular demoncide to get the exits cleared.

But despite the headway the Scoobies had made in some areas, the portal was getting stronger by the minute. Abandoned handbags, empty cups, and lost shoes rolled like tumbleweeds across the field, towed into an endless void of oblivion and hellfire. Bleakgrave was still chanting, stoking the enormous pit that now smelled like scorched barbecue thanks to his bimbo girlfriend. Almost every time Spike took a gander at the portal, there was Harmony, tossing in another townie to feed the damned thing.

Where was that bitch, anyway?

Ah. Not even ten yards away and already trying to drag a fifth course of football players home to hell. Spike winced as she cracked the boys' helmets together. Both of them frantically dug their feet into the ground, but not even their cleats could slow the vampire down.

"Look," the blonde complained as she locked her fingers into their faceplates, "My boyfriend worked _really_ hard to get the portal open, and it's totally in your best interest to be nicer about this. He's really going places, you know."

"Yeah, to purgatory, you brainless harlot," Spike fumed. He glanced beyond the field again, and satisfied with Charlie's' continued safety, turned to go after Harmony. Or he would have, if he hadn't collided face-first into something. More specifically, something's chest. Spike looked upwards. Eyes as big as billiard balls stared back down.

Troll. Or ogre. Possibly the Jolly Green Giant's meaner, uglier cousin.

"Right. Don't suppose we could hash this out after I deal with Satan's Cheerleader over there?" Spike asked hopefully.

"Die," the thing growled, curling one of its massive grabbers into a watermelon-sized fist.

He sighed as the giant's hand began its downward arc. "Didn't think so."

Spike flung himself to the side, and his sword hit the dirt as the monster's huge set of knuckles pulverized his shoulder. Scrambling painfully to his feet, Spike noticed with dismay that Harmony was already getting close to the portal with her intended sacrifices.

"Slayer!" Spike yelled, barely avoiding Big Unfriendly's second attempt to mash his face into a pulp.

"What?" came Buffy's out-of-breath reply.

"Harmony!"

"Uh, I think we're kinda past the point for peace talks."

"No, _Harmony_!" Spike ducked another punch and gestured towards the impending fiasco.

"Oh! Oh, that's _it_ ," the slayer snarled, headbutting the demon she was currently engaged with. She jammed her dagger into its neck. As thick plasma bubbled like a fountain out of the monster's throat, Buffy shoved its body to the ground and then took a few steps in the direction of the portal.

"Hey, Bleakgrave! Wanna see a magic trick?" she bellowed. Across the field, the magician turned his head at the sound of her shouting. Whipping a loaded crossbow out of her coat, Buffy pulled the trigger and sent a stake flying.

Without any pomp or circumstance, Harmony exploded into a big cloud of dust.

"Ta-da!" the slayer announced cheerfully. "You're single!"

Spike was too busy fending off the ogre's vigorous attacks to catch the magician's reaction, but by the rageful way he yelled, Bleakgrave wasn't pleased. "You bitch! You think you can destroy what's mine?"

"Was that a trick question?" Buffy called back. "'Cause I'm going with, _yes_!"

"Then I owe you some pain, Slayer!"

There was an ominously long pause before Spike heard Buffy reply again. "Oh. You're gonna send in that guy with the He-Man haircut? My sense of style is in agony, I'll give you that."

Frustrated that he couldn't see what was going on, Spike dove past his opponent's thick legs, flipped to his feet and leapt onto its back. He wrapped his entire forearm around the brute's throat. Ah, much better. Strangulation with a view.

Directly ahead, a thin, straggly man strode towards them, his silver pendant glinting against his chest with every step he took. If looks could kill, Mr. Needs-A-Trim would've ended the entire battle within the space of a blink. There was something cold and knifelike in his glare, made all the more bloodcurdling by the jagged scars that slashed down one side of his face.

This was not a man to be trifled with.

"Oh, balls," Spike groaned, as a name flashed through his mind.

"You know him?" Buffy asked, grunting as a beefy reptilian demon struck her side.

"Rack. A real nasty sod. Magic dealer of the black, dangerous stuff."

"Oh, great, 'cause one magicy villain isn't enough. Can't he go whammy on someone his own size?"

It was then that Rack slowed his pace, head cocking to one side as though he were listening for something quiet under the din of the rushing winds. He smiled, his pale scars twisting it into a cruel stretch of lips. Turning his back on the brawl-in-progress, the man started making his way towards the eastern part of the field, demons and terrified humans alike giving him a wide berth as he walked away.

There was only one reason why Rack would do that, and it was currently holding hands and getting chanty in a crop of oatgrass.

The color seeped out of Buffy's face as she realized where the warlock was heading. "I didn't mean it! You know I didn't really mean it, right?"

"Bleedin' fantastic, he's got his sights set on the mojo auxiliary," Spike growled, putting some extra muscle behind his chokehold. "Red can handle it, right?"

"Yeah. Maybe?" The slayer didn't sound at all confident. "I mean, they've got a backup plan in case something like this happens."

"Oh, good," Angel remarked, circling nearby as he clashed with a vampire. "What is it?"

"That they finish the spell before anyone can stop them."

Angel stopped moving so suddenly that the vampire he was fighting tripped over his feet. "Wait… chanting real fast is their _plan_? We're so dead."

"If you two thin the horde down, I'll go knock the livin' mojo out of Rack," Spike offered, holding on tight as his oxygen-deprived opponent dropped to his knees. "Soon as Sasquatch, here, bites the..."

The words became stuck in Spike's mouth as Rack neared the end zone and came to a complete stop. The warlock raised his arms in the air, and Spike's blood turned to ice. With a groan and a tremble, the giant goalpost in the end zone broke in half, one section of piping rising up in the air and aiming towards...

Oh, fuck no.

 _No, no, no, no…._

Several hundred pounds of steel went sailing towards the four small figures in the distance. The pipe surged high in a sluggish ascent, and then pitched downward like a god-sized lawn dart.

It slammed into the Scooby circle and the witches' lights sputtered out.

An animalistic roar clawed up and out of Spike's throat, and the ogre's windpipe collapsed beneath his arm.

Abandoning the giant's lifeless body, Spike rushed the closest beast in the mob that surrounded him, twisting off its head like a bottle cap. He ran a Bothros demon through its hearts with the dagger from his boot. Then he planted blows into every bit of inhuman flesh he could find, over and over until he'd cleared enough space to get a good visual on the circle.

From a distance, Spike couldn't tell the extent of anyone's injuries, but already, he knew the outcome couldn't be good. No one was standing. A cry of anguish tore through the atmosphere, though it was too out of range for Spike to be sure who it was. The flash of auburn hair that emerged from the debris was unmistakable, however. Willow had gone full-on Nancy Downs, and she was gunning for Rack.

The ground at the redhead's feet began to crack like peanut brittle as she stalked towards the magic dealer. Above her, the moon and stars became shrouded in darkness. And just at the foot of the destroyed goal post, the slimy little warlock cracked his fingers, grinned a nasty grin, and headed off to meet her.

Spike's eyes bounced back to the forest edge, relief washing over him as a figure with long dark hair pulled itself out of the the dirt and rubble. So that was it then. Tara and the watcher were down. He watched Charlie shrug off her jacket and lay it on top of what looked to be Giles. Then she turned towards the stadium and began walking towards it, calm as the center of a hurricane.

Every bit of Spike's comfort and reassurance fizzled back into cold fear.

"And what part of the backup plan is that, Slayer?" Spike hissed, jerking his head towards the woods.

"She's probably helping Wil," Buffy reasoned, frowning. "She _better_ be helping Wil."

"Why?" Angel asked, driving his axe into the head of some hairless blue monster. "What's she doing?"

Buffy squinted at the far end of the field. "Heading to face that Rack guy?" Her eyes narrowed as Charlie bypassed the witch's fight and neared the first cluster of demons guarding the stadium perimeter. "Oh, no. I know _that_ face. That's an I'm-gonna-gut-a-magician face."

"Why the bleedin' hell would she go after him if she knows it'll keep the portal open?"

The slayer lifted her arms in the air. "I don't know! Giles _told_ all of us! You were there!"

"And _she_ wasn't!" Spike growled. " _Nobody else kept her in the loop?_ "

" _I don't know!"_ Buffy insisted _. "_ She wasn't supposed to go all Rambo! She was supposed to just power our... uh, the... spell…"

The slayer's face had gone slack in a way that Spike had never seen it. He followed her line of sight up, up, up to where her eyes were focused.

Well, shit. No one could say that Bleakgrave didn't appeal to all types.

The thing that towered overhead must have been at least fifteen feet tall. It stalked towards them on a multitude of long, stilty legs while greenish poison dribbled from the tips of its twitching fangs. It stopped and eyed the stream of townspeople that Xander and Demon Girl were still directing out of the stadium.

"You…" the slayer began, nervously licking her lips as she glanced at Spike, "...go stop _our_ Charlotte. I'll take care of the one that ate Wilbur and mutated out of the Zuckerman family barn."

With a curt nod, Spike tossed his dagger into the slayer's hands and took off at a run. Savage yells and screams echoed behind him as he calculated where to intercept Charlie. She was headed for the center of the field, and he dodged and leapt over countless humans and demons to meet her halfway. Already, the monsters that had been blocking her entrance were annihilated; they lay as scattered and lifeless on the ground as Drusilla's dolls. What the hell had she done?

Spike halted directly in her pathway.

Her skin was spattered with grime and cuts, and her hair lifted and swirled in the wind like dark blood spilled into a stream. Glaring at him beneath downturned brows, she stopped just a few paces away, her feet planted firm on the ground.

"Sorry, luv," Spike said. "Can't let you get close to him. Not yet."

"Get out of my way." A crackling line of pale blue danced threateningly over her fingers.

"S'not like that. You kill Bleaks without that bit of bindin' spell you were cookin' up, portal stays open for business."

"Nice little story. I don't know what your end game is, but it's not going to work."

A pale, battle-scarred Granok demon charged at her, and she hardly even moved. With a lift of her hand, her palm met the demon's chest. It stalled mid-step, had itself a funny bit of seizure, and collapsed to the ground in a heap. The scent of burning meat climbed into the air.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Well, this was an alarming turn of events.

Disregarding his suddenly bone-dry tongue, Spike opened his mouth in an attempt to reason with her. But just as he was about to launch into a convincing explanation of why _good vengeance killings come to vampires who wait_ , a huge explosion sounded beyond the stadium, and Spike found himself at a loss for any sort of communication.

Trees were _flying_.

Willow and Rack were launching bloody Eucalyptuses at eachother like they were missiles. Splinters of bark and wood clattered down on top of them, and high above, ominous black clouds began to churn with the threat of mystically induced rain. It was far too close to tell which witch had the upper hand. Regardless, Spike was determined to stay away from _that_ particular brawl, with its deadly, wood splinter debris and all those stake-like projectile-

Charlie darted right past him.

"Bloody hell," Spike muttered, turning and springing after her.

The skies began to open as he ran, releasing curtains of rain so ferocious that it stung his skin, doused his eyes, and leaked under the collar of his coat. The field turned into a watery blur of dark colors, though Charlie was still close enough to recognize her silhouette against the hot glow of hellfire.

She didn't make it far before a red-skinned demon hurtled in front of her, snapping its jagged rows of teeth at her throat. Spike came to a grinding stop, glad to let something less... _him_ stall her progress. His muscles were tensed, barely resisting the urge to come to her aid, but he managed to put it all aside. Every obstacle in her path to Bleakgrave bettered the odds that they'd survive.

Charlie's hand shot out towards the demon's torso, electricity sparking from her fingertips. Voltage hissed and smoked across its wet leather tunic, but the demon only snarled in annoyance. _Ah yes_ , Spike recalled. The _almost_ indestructible Serparvo demon. Good old Serpy could only be drowned, but Charlie seemed to have missed that chapter in the _Vampire's Guide to Surviving an Apocalypse_. Spike felt the hair lift on the nape of his neck as she tried again.

The Serparvo was too fast for her.

Long talons tore into her upper arm, and they sunk in deep. Crying out, Charlie slipped onto the ground, and Spike wondered if his dead heart might restart from pure anxiety. She murmured a command that sent the demon soaring towards the sideline, and shot Spike a black look.

"You're just gonna stand there and watch, _William_?" she asked, her voice dripping with pain and contempt.

"You'd like my helpin' hand, kitten?"

"A helping _fist_ would be nice," she retorted, wiping water off her face and straining to her feet while the Serparvo came plunging back for a second helping. "This isn't a god damned spectator sport."

"S'pose not," he mused.

As the Serparvo barrelled in for its second attack, Spike hurdled towards Charlie. Grabbing her shoulders, he used all of his strength and momentum to send her flying backwards toward the bleachers. There was a distant crash as Spike ducked the Serparvo's claws and dealt a blow to its midsection. Then he knocked the demon onto its side, grabbed it by its straggly hair, and pressed its face into a shallow puddle.

 _One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand_ ….

The demon shuddered and writhed, but Spike kept a death-grip on the back of its neck. Through the downpour, he could just make out the dark, limp shape of Charlie's form among the bleacher shrapnel.

 _Four one thousand, five one thousand, six..._

When the Serparvo finally quivered its last, Spike tore headlong over it and sprinted towards the broken row of seating where Charlie was lying, his boots splashing through endless muck and pooling water.

The rain came at him sideways, and Spike braced a hand over his face as he drew near the twisted ruins of metal legs and plastic backrests. She lay face up among the rubble, limbs outstretched over the armrests and railing. Her hair clung to her forehead in wet tangles, and her lashes fanned against her pale cheeks. Unconscious, then. Lucky break. He had to get her back to the magic group. If Red lived through her duel, there was a chance the witch could still use Charlie's power to bind Bleakgrave to his stupid portal.

"Easy does it, luv," Spike murmured, leaning forward to heft the vampire over his shoulder.

Her eyes flew open.

"Oh, no. We're doing it the hard way," she sneered.

Her foot launched into his stomach.

Spike went sailing onto the grass and touched down like a meteor, the muddy track of his landing spanning a quarter of the field. With a groan, he tried to tune out the throbbing discomfort in his spine as he hauled himself into a sitting position. His brows knitted together in confusion. _The hard way_? Shouldn't he be a smoking, disintegrated pile of vampire bones right now? Why hadn't she used her deadly current of magic on him? Perhaps there was still time to convince her to wait Bleakgrave out.

By the time Spike managed to get himself upright again, Charlie had already liberated herself from the crushed row of bleachers and was getting close to the center of the field, a piece of broken railing clenched in her hands. Though she still met each enemy with fierce stubbornness, her stance was less fluid than it had been before, her movements becoming more cautious.

He studied her with a predator's focus as he sprinted across the open ground. She wasn't using any magic, a sign that her power was starting to give out. That, or perhaps she was just trying to save the dregs of it for Bleaks. None the less, she wasn't an experienced fighter, and her untrained swings and parries weren't doing much more than amusing the pair of vampires she was fending off. Without the magic tricks of her trade, she had strength and backbone and not much else.

As Spike swooped in on them, Charlie smashed the shorter of the two vamps in the mouth with her makeshift weapon. It spat out blood and teeth and growled at her, lurching forward and wrenching the railing out from her hands. Playtime was over. Snatching two stakes out of his duster pocket, Spike jammed them through both vampires' backs at the same time, their dust melting into sludge before it hit the soaked ground.

"So that's it then? You're trying to save me," Charlie snarled. "Well guess what? This isn't some fairytale, and I'm not the little girl that needs protecting from the big, hungry wolf. _I'm_ the wolf, and I'll swallow you whole."

Spike couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "I'm savin' you from yourself, you daft chit. You'll put everyone six foot deep if you carry on."

"That's rich. No one but what's-her-fangs can remember your murderous past, so now you're epitome of world-saveage? Get dead, I'm not buying it."

"Tellin' you the truth Charlie," Spike promised, "cross my heart and hope to dust."

"Oh, I _sincerely_ hope you do."

Right. If Bleakgrave didn't bump her off, Spike was about ready to get in line.

" _Buggering fu-_ you know," he retorted, stomping closer to her, "when the entire town kicks the pail 'cause you're in too much of a lather to listen, hope you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that you gave me a real good tongue-lashing first."

"Back off or I'll fry you like undead tempura."

"I'm not goin' bloody _anywhere_. 'Sides, think you'd quit holdin' back on me if you meant it, Charlie Girl."

"I'm not holding back," she argued, eyes flitting towards something off to Spike's side.

A man's distant outcry broke Spike's concentration, and out of the corner of his vision, he saw that Rack was on his knees. A bloodied Willow stood victoriously over him, her palms crushed against his chest. Warm light flared from her hands and the warlock's howls faltered. She was draining his magic, Spike realized, tearing it out of him like a bird pulling up a worm. If the witch could fill up her tank enough, she might be able to finish the binding spell on her own. With a touch of hopefulness, Spike turned his full attention back to Charlie.

"Yeah, you _are_ holdin' back. And why _is_ that, I wonder? 'Fraid you'll run outta juice before you get to Bleaks?"

"Maybe you're not worth the energy, _William_. Ever consider that?" Charlie shot him a quick, venomous glance before her eyes slid back to the portal.

The rain had stopped, and the light from the hellfire was now casting everything in sickly oranges and deep shadows. With a start, Spike realized where they were standing. Far too close to Bleakgrave and his mystical doorway for comfort. He could feel the heat from the opening toasting the back of his arms, prickling like thorns against his skin. Though the magician was still on the far side of it, the metal platform was only a stone's throw away.

Charlie's eyes flicked between him and Bleakgrave, and it was in that frozen second of her delayed reaction that Spike knew he needed to act fast. She was plotting something, and the man was finally within her reach.

Lightning quick, Spike pounced, grasped her arms, and nuzzled close to her ear. "Ol' Willy's not worth the punch, you say? Be more willin' to wager you've gone all soft and nostalgic-like, thinkin' 'bout how good I did you last night."

She hissed and thrashed out of his grip, twisting and wildly swinging at any part of him that was in striking distance. Her blind fury was Spike's advantage. He kicked the back of her knees just as her fist missed his throat by millimeters. She stumbled backwards. One fast shove brought her the rest of the way to the ground, and Spike straddled her hips, ignoring the cold puddle of water that began soaking into one side of his jeans.

She struggled like her unlife depended on it, but Spike could feel her physical strength beginning to fade. Though she clawed and writhed underneath him, Spike fended off her punches and held her firmly in place with every ounce of stamina he had left.

If she wanted to kill him, she could, Spike was sure of it. One little bend of her hand against his chest would be enough to send him forever floating into the ether. But he was willing to bet his bottom quid that she was hoarding whatever magic energy she had left for Bleaks. All he had to do was keep her distracted and bloodthirsty until Willow gave the all clear.

"You might have the mojo, luv, but you don't have the moves. Well, not on the _battlefield_ anyways _,"_ he jeered, curling his tongue over his sharp teeth. He rotated his hips a fraction to drive his meaning home. "When you hopped my bones-"

"-I'll _break_ your bones!"

"You always hurt the one you love, pet."

She pitched her fist at his head, and he dodged it with ease. "And you're making a real effort, aren't you?"

"Keepin' your skull off the choppin' block? Yeah, I bloody well am."

"I _hate_ you," she spat out.

His grip tightened at her words, and though he didn't intend it, his voice grew soft. "No, you don't. Odds are, you haven't slipped off the kiddie gloves 'cause you feel it…"

"...I feel _disgusted_. Kind of a keep-the-gloves-on situation, don't you think?"

"No, not disgusted. Tethered," he said, flattening his palm above her unbeating heart. "Right here, luv. Know why?"

Underneath him, she stilled, her wrong-colored eyes widening with growing dread.

" _No_ ," she whispered, but the doubt in her voice betrayed her certainty.

"That's right. Turned you. You're mine, Charlie Girl."

The intensity of her stare hit him like a freight train, all blistery anger and mounting panic. It hurt worse than every single one of his bleeding, aching wounds. But hook, line, sinker, if he didn't have her full attention before, he _certainly_ had it now.

Half blinded by tears, she swung at his head, and he winced as her knuckles struck home and split the skin over his cheekbone. Pain, sharp and hot, laced up the side of his temple, but he didn't budge, even when his eyes refused to focus. Somehow, he managed to catch her wrist as her fist neared his face again. He pinned both her hands above her head before she had the chance to try for round three.

But Spike needn't have wasted the effort. Underneath him, Charlie froze, sight riveted just above his shoulder.

Bleakgrave.

The man stood so near that Spike could detect the resin undertones of his cologne and the ashes on his clothes. One of the magician's hands stayed lifted towards the portal, while the other deflected a throwing star with a shockwave force of magic. The bit of metal went whizzing back in the direction it had come from.

Buffy dove into a roll to avoid the weapon, and bounded back to her feet. "Sorry, is this a bad time?"

"Slayer," Bleakgrave growled.

"The one and only. Well, the one and _present_ , anyway. You didn't think I'd miss this little performance of yours, did ya?"

The magician's smile was like shards of glass. "So glad you could make it. Ready to die, little girl?"

"Gee golly whiz, Mr. Magician sir, no one's ever threatened my life before," Buffy said, eyes going wide in pretend fear. "Should I go find a grown up?"

Bleakgrave ignored her gibe. "You know _why_ you'll die, right? You've got too much of a soft spot for these worthless human peasants to leave well enough alone."

"Funny, the only soft spot _I_ see is the piece of crap that's trying to suck my town into a hell portal."

Another pair of stars went whirring towards Bleakgrave's hand, and they ricocheted back into the dirt, same as the last. The magician was looking increasingly irritated and not nearly as thrashed as Spike would have liked. It was clear that the slayer was biding her time with attacks of the non-fatal variety and copious amounts of banter instead of going for the kill. Still waiting on Willow's spell, then.

Buffy blinked innocently at the magician's scowl. "Oh, am I distracting you? Maybe you just need to _pocus_ harder."

"Good advice," Bleakgrave drawled.

With a woosh of air, the discarded throwing stars rose and flew back at the slayer so fast that all Spike saw was a blur of silver. Two left a pair of dark red gashes in their wake. One angled right into her leg, dangerously close to an artery. With a grunt, Buffy yanked the blade out of her thigh. So much for the Bleaks being vulnerable while the portal was open. It was zero hour and the man still had all the aces up his sleeve. And where the _fuck_ was Angel?

Bleakgrave surveyed the slayer's injuries eagerly. "I bet you didn't think you'd die at the hands of a magician, Slayer."

Buffy's forced, watery smile didn't fool Spike for an instant. The slayer was rattled. "And I bet you didn't think you'd grow up into a lame, cape-wearing lunatic, but here we are…"

"That's quite enough small talk," Bleakgrave snapped. "Time's up, bitch."

A startled gasp left the slayer's mouth as her body became suspended like a marionette in the gusting air. Her hands scrambled for purchase at her throat as harsh, choking noises sputtered from her lips.

A wave of panic slammed into Spike, and he tried to force it down. This was bad, sure, but the slayer couldn't lose. She _never_ lost. It was against the very laws of nature, wasn't it? The Powers That Be would intervene. One of her buggering _friends_ or _family_ would somehow intervene. She'd slip her invisible shackles and do a zippy handspring face-punch combo that'd knock the tosser unconscious until they could slit his magical throat.

The slayer's lips began turning blue. Any moment now...

"He's gonna kill her," Spike finally murmured. His remark shook Charlie out of whatever daze she'd been in, and she began pounding at his arms with fresh resolve.

"Let GO of me!"

"Not 'til he's bound to the portal," Spike responded.

"Well, well, look what the kitty dragged in." Grinning, Bleakgrave splashed through puddles of rainwater as he took a few steps closer. He kept his hands veered towards both the portal and suffocating slayer. "Oh, this is just _too_ good. Is the romance dead already? Well I guess murder _is_ cheaper than couples counseling, but who would've thought that you two love birds would ever be duking it out like mortal enemies?" He shot Spike a mockingly sympathetic smile. "Guess that little favor you asked me for didn't work out so well, huh, partner? Oops."

"A favor from Bleakgrave?" Charlie hissed at Spike. "Isn't that special."

"It really was," the magician agreed, "especially since he bought it with a rock-hard little piece of treachery. No matter. I'll deal with you two in a moment, if you haven't already killed each other. But first, any last words before I send your soul to hell, Slayer?"

"Waahhher," Buffy rasped.

"What was that?"

"Waaaatrr." The slayer's glazed eyes settled on Charlie.

"Water?" Bleakgrave repeated, chuckling. "Oh, no, not where you're going."

Spike felt Charlie's body stiffen underneath him, and in that instant, clarity burst like dam in his mind. Full tilt, he rolled her on top of him and surrendered the hold on her arms. Charlie's hand shot out and struck the puddle next to them.

The electric current was so bright that for a second, Spike could see the shadows of all the bones in her hand. The water steamed and crackled like it was boiling, and coiled bolts of energy jumped and twisted through every bit of puddle it touched. All the way to Bleakgrave's submerged shoes.

With a screech, Bleakgrave toppled backwards against the side of his metal stage, clutching and clawing at the edges to stay upright. Released from his magic, Buffy dropped to the ground and began gulping huge breaths of air.

Spike looked up at Charlie. Whatever she had done, it seemed to have sapped all of her power. Gone was the blue tint and the thrum of power beneath her skin. Her eyes, now green as the field stared down at him; saner, perhaps, but no less furious than before.

"Did they beg you to stop when you slaughtered them, _William_?" she seethed, as angry and tearful as he'd ever seen her. "Is my ancestors' blood still inside you? Is _my_ blood still inside you?"

Willow's voice surged across the field like thunder. "Buffy! _Now_!"

Everything plunged into syrupy slow motion. The swirling portal picked up speed, sucking frantically at everything around it. Spike felt his entire body get yanked against the side of the metal stage, Charlie still atop him. Having regained her footing, Buffy ducked for cover and clung like a magnet to the platform's edge just a few yards down.

Despite the tearing, forceful tug of the portal, Bleakgrave stood. His legs quivered against the lip of the stage, and the look on his face was unmistakable. He knew he'd lost.

The magician eyed the knife which had appeared in Buffy's free hand with bitter disdain. "I thought it was the slayer's duty to protect the lives of ALL humans," he bellowed over the wind. "You'd take mine?!"

"Maybe not," Buffy yelled back, her damp blonde hair whipping in a frenzy around her head. She looked down the field. "But I wouldn't save it either."

It all seemed to happen at once.

A shrill whistle pierced the air as the last piece of fallen goal post built up speed, rocketing through the stadium towards the portal.

Charlie's fangs ripped into Spike's jugular.

Bleakgrave screamed.

Over the top of Charlie's head, Spike watched the pipe slide straight through the magician's torso and into the churning hellfire. The screams turned into a sick, gurgling noise over the sound of the wind. Blood spattered. Organs went places that organs weren't really supposed to go.

And slowly, slowly, the heavy wind began to simmer down. The portal seemed to let out a sigh, before starting to curl into itself as though it were a dying flower.

Spike shut his eyes.

Bleakgrave was dead.

It was finally over.

The sharp, pinching fire at his neck seemed far from over, however. It burned like sunlight soaked in holy water, and Charlie's hostility was almost too much to bare.

Despite the pain, he found he couldn't summon the strength or desire to fight her off, so Spike did the only thing he could think to. He pretended. That her embrace was one of love and relief and that the mouth pressed against his skin wasn't a kiss of death, but a simple expression of tenderness. Lost in his own reverie, Spike's hand wandered across the droplets of water on Charlie's bare shoulder and found a resting place in her damp hair. "Got you, luv," he murmured.

He kissed her ear, and her teeth clamped down a little harder, but Spike was unwilling to relinquish what comfort he could steal.

A strange sense of peace passed over him.

He wasn't sure what happened when a vampire was fully drained. Maybe he'd dust. Maybe he'd wither up like a slug in a salt mine and be left to burn in the sunrise. Didn't matter. It was dark and cold. He was so tired. And really, it didn't feel so different from the time Dru had drained him as a human, though the shock of it had dulled the pain somewhat on that strange, fateful night. Then again, Dru hadn't been revenge-biting him, she'd been…

Wait.

Dru…

A _memory_ …

Did Bleakgrave's death mean his forgetting spell was…

The pressure at the juncture of his neck suddenly vanished, and Spike's eyes flew back open. Charlie stared down at him, uncertainty swimming in her irises and her lips slick and red with his blood.

One trembling hand slid up to cover her mouth. "Oh god. Spike?" she whispered.

* * *

 _A/N: Cripes, you guys. It's been a while. I've had... a rougher six months than I thought was possible for a person to get through. I'm not really better yet, but I'm still here, and that's something. Thanks for all the love, reviews, follows, and favs; you've helped me to get me through this stuff, whether you know it or not. Oh, and go give a listen to NINJA TRACK'S The Machination if you wanna hear the song I played on repeat about a bajillion times while figuring out this scene._

 _P.S.- Your reviews are my lifeblood, kiddies. xoxo_


	46. Chapter 46- Crumble

**Previously:** _Vampire meets girl, vampire befriends girl, vampire vamps girl (with good intentions) and then realizes girl is actually a Kalderash and there was that one time he ate a bunch of them (with not-so-good intentions)._

 _Spike, the Scoobies, and newly-vamped Charlie team up against the evil magician, Bleakgrave, but in the process of duping good ol' Bleaks, Spike asks him for the teensy favor of erasing that little Kalderash Buffet incident from the history books (since he's fallen for Charlie), and Bleakgrave does him one better and erases all memories of Spike everywhere._

 _But despite all the things that went wrong, the Scoobies win the day, Bleakgrave takes a magic carpet ride to Deadsville, and the reports of Spike's imminent death are greatly exaggerated. Everything's gonna be great now, right? Right?_

* * *

A thousand thoughts, a thousand memories poured back into Spike's head like water gushing over a levee.

St. Petersburg. Doing in that Chinese slayer. His mother's lively hum as she inked a note across a page of vellum. The summertime heat and press of bodies in the New York City subway.

And _Charlie_. Charlie, Charlie everywhere. Laughing at his retorts, spinning a deck of cards around his head like a paper flock of birds, bleeding on his hands in a tiny cabin, kissing his mouth with such urgency he that could feel the echoes of it on his lips.

Each sound and thought and image seemed to burst in his brain in unison, a pyrotechnic display of recollections that swiftly overwhelmed his senses. And just when he thought he couldn't bear it any longer, it stopped, leaving behind a faint, almost pleasant thrumming sensation and all of his missing memories.

Exhausted, Spike let his head loll to the side, eyes squinting against the glare of the only surviving floodlight.

The football field was a mess.

Demon carcasses and piles of bodies mingled with twisted shafts of metal and smoldering wood debris. Most of the bleacher scaffolds had collapsed into heaps, and puddles were tinged the deep and disgusting hues of demon blood. A handful of petrified humans remained in the stadium, their wide eyes stuck to the shining, gorey ruins of Bleakgrave's platform.

Everything was so still, so silent compared to what it had been just moments before.

But within the space of a few breaths, the stadium seemed to flutter awake, little pockets of it whirring to life like wound-up clock gears. By the main entrance, Xander and Anya started tending to a wounded football player. A few still-standing demons made a break for it, scattering in all directions as emergency sirens began to sound in the distance. The uninjured humans left en-masse.

And nearby, Buffy sucked in a deep breath of air and let it out again. She started limping forward as Angel, covered in cuts and almost battered beyond recognition, surged in to embrace her. The vampire pressed a kiss to the slayer's sweaty, blood-flecked forehead.

"You alright?" Spike heard Angel murmur over the sound of footsteps squishing in the mud.

"Yeah, game over, I'm good- Wil!" Buffy's voice cracked as she released Angel to throw her arms around her approaching friend.

The witch grimaced at the strength of the slayer's hug, but she returned it with equal intensity.

"Giles...? Tara...?" Buffy asked, loosening her grasp and frantically scanning the field for the remainder of the Scoobies.

"They're okay. Well, not okay-okay, but they're gonna be. Giles got whacked in the head pretty bad and I think Tara's leg is broken. There's ambulances on the way, but I wanted to make sure you guys were alright before we go." Willow's gaze fell to the dark, blooming stains on Buffy's clothes. "Maybe you should come with? Get those checked out?"

"I'll be fine," the slayer reassured her. "Nothing a little patch job and slayer healing can't… _Spike_ …"

At the sound of his name, Spike blinked, suddenly aware of the heaping levels of pain that gripped every inch of his flesh. He tried to move his legs, and found them unwilling to cooperate.

 _Fuck. Well done, you git. Roll yourself back to the old no-stomping grounds in another bloody wheelchair._

But when he looked towards his feet, he was relieved to find Charlie weighing him down, straddling his thighs and staring at him with a glazed expression like she hadn't seen him in months. Gathering every bit of his remaining strength, Spike reached up to tuck her damp hair behind her ear.

"There's my girl," he rasped, surprised by how weak his voice sounded.

Aside from the ruby red blood streaked across her lips, _his_ blood, he realized with no small amount of queasiness, there wasn't a trace of vampire or vengeance demon in her appearance. She merely looked like a scared, confused girl, ravaged by battle and rainstorm.

"Spike…" she whispered, as though she were tasting his name for the first time. Her eyes pulled away from his to focus on the collar of his jacket, and he was sure by her frown that she was piecing bits of her memories back together.

God, he was so tired.

And Charlie was so somber, so quiet, considering that pieces of Bleakgrave's corpse were lying around them like confetti.

"Had me worried for a mo'," Spike said, giving her a lopsided smile. "Thought you were gonna-"

"-Are you okay?" Her gaze flitted back to his and then down to the punctures in his neck. Trembling, her fingertips stroked comforting lines against his cheek. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to- I thought that you were… god. What the hell happened?"

"Don't fret, Charlie Girl. Be hale as a fiddle after a pint of o-neg." Trying and failing to wiggle his toes, he realized how badly he needed blood. "Or ten," he admitted.

But the relief in her eyes only lasted for a moment, clouded by something dark and ominous that settled in the pit of his stomach.

"What's wrong, luv?" he murmured.

"Do you remember?" she asked, her voice like the first, distant rumblings of thunder. "The night when my family's clan was killed? When you and Drusilla… when you… did you really do those things?"

Every muscle in Spike's body went taut.

Guilt was not a feeling he often felt. Truly, he couldn't recall more than a handful of times where the useless emotion had surfaced, and even then, it was only in the most shallow sense of the word. Those ridiculous truces with the slayer. Not keeping a better eye on Dru in Prague. His _mum_. But now, shame weighed on him like a fyarl demon in a bar fight. He couldn't lie to her about that blood-drenched night in Romania. Not anymore.

"If… if I'd known about you a century ago," he admitted, choking on his own words, "never would have… I couldn'tve. Love you _so_ much…"

Something softened in her face, and she gave a little nod at his admission. "It's not the stuff of roses and Hallmark movies… but you were different then. You couldn't have known," she said lightly, and a wave of relief washed away all of Spike's worry.

"And Bleakgrave?" she added. "You didn't ask him to erase all our memories of you, right?"

"No, 'course not!" he objected, huffing a laugh. "Wasn't supposed to be the whole bloody thing. Just the bits 'bout me and the gypsies. Thought you'd take off if you caught wind of what I'd done. Couldn't lose you, couldn't chance it."

At that, she scrambled off of him, and Spike was loathe to find that he lacked the energy to sit upright.

"S'alright now, pet. It's over. Everything'll be set to rights, it will," he promised.

When she whipped back around to look at him, he saw that tears were sliding down her cheeks, leaving pale tracks through the gore and filth that coated her face. It wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for. Or expecting. His head began to swim from blood loss, threatening to drown both his composure and consciousness in its drowsy, syrupy torment.

"No, Spike. _It's not alright._ You picked the one person on the whole planet that I hate, the one person that's done more damage to my life than I ever thought was possible and what did you do? You asked him for a _favor_. You let him _violate_ my mind. All of our minds! And for what?"

Around them, the Scoobies had gone silent, working out the Case of the Missing Spike Memories with every word Charlie was saying. Even Demon Girl and Xander were close enough to hear her outburst. Nearby, a wounded, fleeing lei-ach demon paused mid-hobble to watch the developing spectacle.

" _What if I'd killed you?_ Was I supposed to just _live_ with that when I got my memories back? _Forever_?"

"Look," Spike said, adopting the most reassuring voice he could, "just lemme explain, lay all the cards out on the table..."

"You can't lay them out!" Charlie cried. "You don't have any left! You played Go Fish with Bleakgrave and gave him every stupid card you had! And he may not have won, but neither did you."

"What are you drivin' at, luv?"

"You forfeit," she whispered, fingers grazing that unbeating part of her chest. "You _forfeit,_ Spike."

She took a few steps backward, and Spike could see every bit of misery and anger that played over her face. Then she turned and began walking away.

"Charlie-"

The line of her shoulders tightened at his plea, but she didn't stop or slow her pace. If anything, her gait became more determined.

"Char-" he tried again, coughing as a spasm of pain ravaged his throat.

"Enough." Buffy's voice sliced through the air. "You've done enough damage. Let her go."

Spike felt the eyes of the group slide over him, taking in his injuries, his prone position, the twin gashes in his neck that were still trickling into the grass. Never in his unlife had he felt so vulnerable.

"Damage? I bloody well saved our collective arses, Slayer," Spike snapped. "She would've offed Bleaks if given half a chance, and we'd all be simmerin' to rapid boil over a pit of fire and brimstone."

"And why's that? Oh, wait, I seem to _remember_ now, Spike. Because you didn't stick to the plan. _You know_ , the one where you destroy Bleakgrave's little source of energy and then we _attack_ him? But _whoopsie_ , we forgot you existed and Mr. Soul Collector had enough time to collect himself a plentiful bounty of new ones."

"Still won the night, didn't we?" Spike argued.

"Did we?" Buffy huffed, pointing at the remnants of Bleakgrave's portal. "You made a mess, and people died tonight because of it. _Innocent_ people."

"Innocent people die _every day_. Can't save 'em all, Slayer."

Buffy glared at him, her eyes blazing with righteous fury. "You know what, I'm _done_ with all your stupid schemes, Spike."

Ah, so this was it, then. The pathetic end of the avenue. No fighting back, no going down in a blaze of history-books glory. Spike waited for the slayer to pull out a pointy stick, mutter some wisecrack, and send the thing hurtling into his heart. So long, farewell, au revoir William the Bloody.

But she didn't move. Instead, she watched Charlie's retreating figure for a moment before staring down at him once more. "You fought with us. That's not nothing. I'll give you enough time to get back on your feet, but then I want you _out_. Out of our hair, out of the loop, out of this town. Understand?"

"Oh, is that supposed to cut, Slayer?" he blurted out. "Think I _wanted_ to pal around with your Good and Plentis? Only did it for her."

The barest trace of a smile ghosted over Buffy's lips, as though his lie was transparent as cellophane. "I don't need to hurt you, Spike. You've done that all on your own."

Five grim faces waited for his retort, but Spike was too tired, in too much pain to disagree. And besides, the slayer wasn't exactly wrong, was she? Just _once_ he wanted to know what it felt like to have a place on the team, be the beloved comrade instead of the everlasting pariah. To bask in the joy of the victory party.

Xander would be cracking his lame, awful jokes, and Red, magicking up some balloons or whatever shit she made when the Scoobies snuffed out the Big Bad. Even Buffy would've gotten that giant stick removed for at least a few hours.

And Charlie. Charlie would have been free of everything that had pummeled her for the past few years. Charlie would have been elated. Instead, she was gone because he'd bollixed everything to hell.

And yes, perhaps he should have known better than to seek out Bleakgrave's talents. Truth be told, he _did_ know better. Magic _always_ had consequences. But, as usual, he'd been willing to break every golden rule in the book to retain the object of his affection.

Was it really _all_ his doing, though? That morose, awful feeling that had draped over everyone like a wet blanket? The whelp had lied a thousand times and no one had chewed his head off for it. And Red had stuffed the Scoobies full of Will-Be-Done mojo that one time. She'd gotten off the hook with _cookies_ for fuck's sake. Since when did a little deceit-and-manipulation gone wrong create cause for _banishment_?

Outside the stadium, the persistent wail of sirens came to a halt, and Spike felt a kernal of relief as the weight of the Scoobies' stares drifted away from him.

"Come on," the slayer said to the others, blue and red lights pulsing on their faces as emergency vehicles began to park in the entrance way. "We've got work to do."

One by one, each of them departed, without so much as a fare-thee-well.

Angel was the last to leave. "You're an idiot," his grandsire said, sneering down at him through purpling, swollen eyelids. "How'd you think this was gonna end? Ticker tape, rainbows, and a white picket fence? You may be leashed, but you'll always be an evil, soulless thing."

Spike swallowed the hysterical laughter that bubbled in his throat. Buggering hypocrite. Angel had always found Spike wanting, even when the dolt was one soul short of _benevolent_ himself. Then, it'd been those too-soft bits left inside Spike, all the _feelings_ he wasn't supposed to have, all the delight he'd taken in human pastimes. And now Angel and everyone else had deemed him too bad to play with all the good boys and girls. If that were true, then where the fuck did he fit in?

"Enjoy your shadow, Spike. It's the only thing that'll ever stand by you."

 _That_ , Spike thought bitterly, struck harder than any stake to the chest.

So as the wreckage of the football field hissed and cracked around him, and Peaches walked off until he was out of both sight and earshot, Spike finally did what every self-respecting demon wouldn't have the guts to do.

He cried.

-oo0oo-

"Oh, cheer up. It wasn't _that_ bad…"

Spike glared at the boy driving the creaking, shuddering truck. It wasn't effective given that he was horizontal on the floor and could barely lift his head. "You miss the part where Charlie _bit me,_ Lagbrain?"

"Maybe she's still fine-tuning her approach to romance," Xander offered, then paused and shook his head. "Nah, I have no idea why I'm sparing your feelings. She totally wanted you dead."

And now she didn't want him at all. All because he'd tried to keep their love on the right track.

His heart had been in the right place, hadn't it? Well, maybe a piece or two had gotten lost in his prick, but points for intent. Seemed as though every plan to protect his relationships was doomed to erupt in his face, for the sole, simple reason that he'd exerted himself. Even saving Dru from the bleeding _end of the world_ had resulted in him getting shown the door, his unceasing devotion shoved aside for the unceasing slime of a chaos demon.

"Well, at least there's a bright side," Anya offered.

"Which is _what_ , exactly?" Xander asked.

"Oh, not like a silver lining. I just meant he can dust in it. You know," she said, nodding towards the first rays of dawn that were just hitting the sidewalks, "the bright side."

Spike might have been tempted if he hadn't needed to shift his limbs to do it. With every drum-like quiver and thump of the ice cream truck, his body screamed the backup vocals of agony. The whelp hit a particularly large pothole and a fresh surge of hellfire blazed to life in Spike's ribs. Yes, moving was out of the question.

"Useless git," Spike hissed, unsure if he meant Xander or himself. Either way, it applied.

"There, there. You're not totally useless," Anya reassured him, patting Spike's shoulder as they finally passed through the gates of Restfield Cemetery. "Whenever someone needs life advice, I'm sure we could use you as the bad example."

"Thanks _ever_ so."

The truck vaulted over the curb as it drove onto the grass, and Spike tried to clutch the floor, the freezer, _anything_ as the ceiling of the vehicle started to spin nauseatingly.

"Oh, bloody buggering fuc-" he grunted, and the world faded to black.

-oo0oo-

With a gasp, Spike tore himself out of sleep. Scrambling to sit upright, he wildly checked his surroundings for signs of danger and finding none, scrubbed a weary hand over his face.

There was no blood. No shrieking. Just the same four walls he'd been miserably staring at for days.

"Home, sweet home," he muttered.

As if his crypt could be called _that_ anymore. It wasn't the place he'd sniffed out for himself so many months ago, nor was it the comfy dwelling he'd forged and shared with Charlie just a few weeks past. The furniture had been covered in moth-eaten blankets and shoved against the walls. The refrigerator was empty, and a layer of dust coated every surface like the filmy scum atop a pond. Bleakgrave's torture chamber could've boasted a cheerier ambiance.

It was the dead husk of a home. The grungy, gloomy skeleton of an unlife that had once glowed with warmth.

And oh, how those warm, heart-wrenchingly tender memories of Charlie danced all over the mausoleum, haunting Spike like a stubborn poltergeist. There, she'd slept, there, she'd kissed him, there, she'd lain in a circle of chalk as the witches and Giles mended her soul. Even when Spike shut his eyes, she was still present in that everywhere and nowhere kind of way. His dreams were drenched with her.

They had all been the same since Anya and Xander dumped him back inside his dwelling; dark, violent things, where all he could remember was hurting some faceless entity. Ordinarily, he would have _delighted_ in it, except he couldn't shake the feeling that it was Charlie's tortured voice ringing in his ears, and the echos only plunged that frustrating, guilt-like feeling a little deeper.

With a groan, Spike hauled himself to his feet. Reflected light was streaming through the bars of the crypt, illuminating the hard slab of stone he'd slept on. He hadn't bothered with a blanket. Nor with a pillow. What use were soft things when any trace of comfort had already leached out of his body? Vaguely, he wondered what time it was. Late afternoon, maybe. The devil knew what day it was.

Not that it mattered.

Not like she was coming back.

"Sod this," he growled, slamming his fist onto the lid of the sarcophagus.

Little cracks splintered the stone and pain flared its icy burn against his knuckles. Blood welled between his fingers when he lifted his hand back up. He studied the thin, dark lines as they dripped down his arm, over the faded pink scars and ghostly purple marks that marred his skin. In a few more days, his injuries would be completely healed, leaving nothing but smooth, pale skin and stronger bones behind.

Longingly, his fingers slid up to caress the twin, itchy punctures on his neck. Even Charlie's bite would be gone soon. The only token of her that he had left, vanishing into naught. A sob caught in his throat.

 _Write some poetry about it, you gormless pillock._

What rhymed with _faithless chit?_

 _Crock of shit._

Did he even have something to write on?

Casting an eye around the crypt for a scrap of paper or some sort of writing implement, his vision snagged on the entry steps. Someone had left him a bag of hospital blood, pure caviar compared to the butcher shop swill that Buffy had been dropping off in an effort to get him upright and gone.

Spike's heart swelled with hope until he caught the scent that still lingered in the air. Clem had been by, then. He clambered stiffly to the door, downed it without tasting it, and wished he could asphyxiate in a cloud of nicotine.

Perhaps with enough time and booze he could forget it all happened, return to the days of relative bachelorhood where it was just him and his crypt and the telly for company. It'd worked well enough after Dru. Come to think of it, he could always go _find_ Dru. _She'd_ seemed eager enough to have him back. A little bit of begging on her part, and things could go back to the way they'd always been.

Except he already knew that Dru, singledom, or a Vamp Seeks Vamp in the Sunnydale personal ads would be a wasted effort. He'd had a bite of how good his unlife could be, and there'd be no washing the sweet aftertaste out of his mouth. There was only one thing to do, and sitting on his arse as he corpseified in his crypt wouldn't accomplish it.

So Spike found his boots, donned the cleanest smelling shirt he could find, and left the confines of his tomb. After all, he hadn't survived for over a hundred and twenty years by giving up when the odds were stacked against him.

-oo0oo-

Four hours later, Spike was grouchy, footsore, and ready to sink his fangs into something warm and screaming.

The Crawford Street mansion was deserted. While the place still clung to its signature aroma of firewood, spray paint, and piss, all evidence of Charlie's presence had been stripped from the room they'd stayed in. There were no belongings, no leftover scent, no poignant, heartfelt goodbye note tacked to the bed frame. Stalking back outside, Spike hadn't felt any measure of comfort as he tripped over the broken set of manacles lying on the living room floor. He ripped them off the support beam and hurled them into the fireplace before continuing on his fool's errand.

The motel was a bust, Willy hadn't seen her, and Giles threatened him with a staking the moment he slipped a Doc Martin into the Magic Box. According to Anya, Captain Forehead had left Sunnydale all by his lonesome, so LA could get scratched off the possibilities list. Spike even skulked around the Summer's residence and Charlie's old flat for a bit, but to no avail. His progeny had truly scampered off to Never Never Be Found Land.

Not that he was entirely sure what he was going to do if he _did_ find her. He wanted to apologize. Beg. Tear her open with his bare hands for having the gall to leave him lying on the battlefield like a broken weapon. With a long sigh, Spike brushed his vengeful thoughts aside and began trudging towards the last pushpin on his mental map of places she could be.

-oo0oo-

It had turned into the type of evening that, had Spike been lacking a certain chip, would have ended in an easy, satisfying meal. That balmy, breezy kind of nightfall that sang its song to lovers and groups of friends, luring them into dark parks and cemeteries to enjoy the starlit skies.

So, it was really no surprise that the UC Sunnydale campus was absolutely crawling with students. Even with Spike's predatory walk and irritable glower, few seemed aware enough to get out of the path he was cutting. Instead they _meandered_ into it like stoned cattle, and by the time Spike reached Stevenson Hall, his brain was still twitching with aftershocks.

The dormitory was thankfully empty of dimwitted college kids, and after climbing a flight of stairs and making his way down the hall, Spike tapped his knuckles against the door to room 214. Though he could hear the steady thump of heartbeats and the quiet whisper of papers being shuffled around, no one answered.

Undeterred, Spike knocked louder.

Light, abrupt footsteps sounded and the door hurtled open.

" _It's a study night,_ _WHAT?!"_ Willow hissed. "Oh… Spike. Uh, hi. You look… umm, I was gonna say _better_ , but we've never been about the pretense, have we?"

"Oh yeah, everything's comin' up corpses, it is," he sneered, trying to push past the witch before she could tell him to hit the road. She didn't budge. Over her shoulder, Spike could see that one of the beds was covered in more texts and notebooks than blankets. Tara was fast asleep on top of the other one, her leg wrapped in a hard, white shell of plaster and gauze.

With a quick glance at her sleeping girlfriend, Willow shooed Spike back into the hallway. She closed the door quietly behind them.

"How's she holdin' up, then?" Spike asked.

"Kinda sore and downish, actually, but the gang came over yesterday and we doodled cute stuff all over her cast. Dawn stole Anya's pen and drew a bunny, and then Ch-" the witch paused and rubbed the back of her neck. "Nevermind. Did you need something?"

"Lookin' for Miss Run-Off-Into-the-Night-Without-So-Much-As-a-Farewell-Kiss," he replied, fumbling in his pockets for the smokes he'd picked up on his way over. "Seen her about?"

Willow watched his movements warily. "I think she's still going by _Charlie_. And not since last- no."

Cigarettes forgotten, Spike's eyes narrowed into slits. "Not since last _what_?"

"Uh, apocalypse?" Willow tried.

Spike's voice was deadly calm. "Where. Is. She."

"I'm not telling you." The witch's eyes went flinty. "And don't even think about swinging broken glass in my face again, mister, 'cause these lips aren't moving."

Crossing to the other side of the hallway in an effort to calm her, Spike slouched against the wall and ran a hand through his hair. He levelled her with a sharp look. "And what would you have done, Red? If there was somethin' boggin' up your past and Glinda would've dropped you over the coals for it..."

The resolve on Willow's face faltered for barely a split second, but it was enough to reassure Spike that only a little coaxing would be required to break her.

"I mean, I don't _think_ I would ever use magic to… well, at least I…"

"- _You'd do whatever it takes, wouldn't you?"_ Spike interrupted. "To keep her in your arms, to keep her happy? Please, Red. She's the love of my unlife."

There was a long stretch of silence as the witch tapped her fingers against her thigh.

"Please," he begged again, deploying the pout and innocent stare that had won him a century's worth of favors from women, men, and demons alike.

"Alright," Willow finally sighed, biting at her lip. "But if I tell you, you didn't hear it from me. And… and you have to promise you won't do anything stupid or get all mad about it…"

-oo0oo-

Spike huffed and cursed up the hill, the heels of his boots crushing every pebble that dared to get underfoot. His fist curled more tightly around the neck of his whiskey bottle, and the shallow pool of remaining alcohol splashed with every stomp he made. Even the key to the DeSoto seemed to jingle angrily inside his pocket. He had no regrets about the way he'd left his car, all banged-up and guarding the fancy, crushed mailbox as though it was wounded prey.

"Dracula," he growled.

The castle loomed out of the fog like a deep, dark shadow against the night sky, its roof crowned with crumbling battlements and turrets. It was unnervingly similar to how Spike had pictured it, and he bit back a hiss as he passed underneath the front gate, a pair of carved gargoyles sneering down at him.

"Get a grip, _Spike,_ and stay away from _Dracula_ ," he said, in a high, mocking imitation of Willow's voice as he made his way up the stairs to the entrance. "I'll get a grip, all right. I'll getta grip on a stake and shove it right up that ponce's overbearin', pasty, shape-shiftin' _arse_."

With one last growl, he slammed the bottle against the side of the castle, christening it with broken glass and a few ounces of fermented backwash. Then he turned to the enormous wood and iron door and hammered his fist against it.

"Open up, Wankula! I know you're in there, you great big steamin' pile of guano-"

The door groaned like a dying man as it opened, slowly revealing the castle's foyer. Though the interior wasn't as vast or as grand as Spike had suspected, it still seemed to glow with some kind of mysterious, Dracula-like power. Perhaps it was magic, but it might have merely been the large candelabra, gleaming down from the ceiling and bathing the stone floor in robust tones of gold.

A throat cleared. "And you are?"

Spike angled his head down to find a short figure waiting stiffly in the doorway. He frowned. "A bit bewildered, truth be told. Remember you being taller. More capey. Less… purple."

The little demon's lips formed a thin line. "I'm Butterfield, his dark holiness's manservant."

Right. _Manservant_.

Spike sniffed dismissively and glanced back into the foyer. "Well, Buttercup, I have a bit of a bone to scrape with the master of this whimsical little flophouse."

"You will treat the Dark Prince with the honor and respect he deserves," the servant demanded.

"Oh, I have all intentions on it," Spike promised darkly.

The demon eyed him suspiciously.

Spike smiled.

"Very well. But you'll wait here," Butterfield cautioned, moving aside so Spike could cross the threshold. "My master is currently… _occupied_ , but I will inform him of your arrival."

Small fingers motioned towards a bench, an engraved hunk of limestone that looked as though it was hewn from the same rock as the rest of the damned castle. Playing along, Spike perched on the edge of it, folded his arms, and raised an expectant eyebrow. Butterfield's face turned prune-like, but the demon merely spun and trotted off towards the nearest doorway without another word.

Spike was on his feet before Butterfield was even out of sight. He took a deep inhale. The air in the room was cool and reeked of damp soil and expensive spices that he couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, it smelled old. Ancient, even. But underneath the cloying scent, tickling his nostrils like dandelion fluff, was _her_. He was sure of it.

He smoothed out his hair and attempted to re-tuck his disheveled t-shirt into his jeans as the sound of Butterfield's footsteps faded into the heart of the castle. The first hurdle out of the way, Spike then studied the handful of stairways and corridors that honeycombed the entry room. He wasn't keen on waiting and had sod-all interest in a tete-a-tete with Mr. Special Dirt. Finding Charlie, on the other hand, was absolutely the first order of business.

Her scent was strongest towards a darkened, narrow set of stairs, so he began to climb them, the hem of his leather jacket sweeping along the stones. Every few steps, the walls were interrupted by little niches, each one filled with the statuette of some sobbing nymph or kidnapped virgin. Dracs was clearly one tormented sculpture away from needing a full-scale intervention, Spike thought as he passed what must have been the twentieth.

What would he find at the top? The world's most gothic library? Charlie and Count Dimwit nestling down for a midnight tea? Willow had claimed that Charlie's little pilgrimage had more to do with Dracula's rich history with the Romani tribe than anything else, that she wanted to learn more about her magic, her ancestors. Spike had his doubts. Rupert probably had a dozen stuffy histories in his personal book collection and at least a handful of old colleagues he could have pointed her towards. True, they'd probably never actually _met_ her family, but the information couldn't be all that different.

Really, Spike wouldn't have been all that surprised to find her bolted to a chair or chained to a wall in some sort of dungeon room. Dubious history lessons aside, why would _anyone_ willingly bunk up with _Dracula, owner and operator of Bug Eaters Anonymous_? Dracs couldn't be trusted. The old bat had those crafty little magic tricks of his, the most careful undead falling victim to his charms. Even Dru and Darla had been unwillingly hooked by the ponce's piercing, thrally eyeballs a time or two. Though he had to admit, a bit of Search and Rescue, Charlie Edition, would be a satisfying way to end to their lovers' quarrel.

But the other part of Spike's brain, the one that stage-whispered all of William Pratt's biggest, most humiliating fears, pondered the likelihood of heading into a different sort of territory all together. Charlie couldn't be… _with_ Dracula. Could she? The image of Dru's satisfied, post-coital face after the incident with the Immortal clawed its way to the surface like the hand of newly made-vampire. Spike shoved the memory back into its coffin, locked it, and threw the key into the darkest, deepest, furthest recess of his mind.

By the time he worked his way to the top of the stairs, Spike had also worked himself to the end of his wits. His shadow quivered as he began wandering down the hallway he'd come to, and he wasn't sure if it was fear or rage or just a trick of the light from the flickering sconces. Probably one of the former. Before he had the chance to dwell on the reason, a single door was drawing him in like Bleakgrave's portal to hell.

Warm light spilled out from underneath it, and he could almost sense the imprints her fingertips had left behind on the gold filigree knob. Every instinct screamed at him to open it. For a moment, he rested his palm and ear against the wood, and just listened. Not a sound. His shaking fingers closed around the doorknob and twisted until there was a muffled click. Then he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

It was nothing of what he'd expected.

The room was… cozy.

A four poster bed, draped with ancient, wine-colored velvet lay off to one side, a dark, solid wood desk snuggled up next to it. Several glass lamps perched on various, slightly dusty surfaces, drenching the room in a soft, cheerful glow. In front of a worn but elegant chaise lounge, a fire crackled merrily in a giant stone fireplace. As he'd anticipated, Charlie was nowhere to be seen, but the steam curling out of a china teacup on the desk indicated that she'd only stepped out for a moment.

Crossing the floor to the workspace, he traced a forefinger around the rim of the delicate cup, wondering if her lips had grazed it before she'd left the tea to cool. It smelled like the kind he used to drink as a human every afternoon, and a wistful smile tugged at his mouth. Ceylon black. A splash of cream and a lump of sugar.

The piercing howl of some wolf or dog sounded just below Charlie's window, shaking Spike out of his fond, half-forgotten memories. Time was of the essence. Abandoning the teacup, he circled the room, taking in every detail like a marooned sailor, desperate to find some landmark or clue to take him back to mainland. Little of what he found was encouraging.

Her clothes hung neatly in the closet as though they belonged there. A photo of Jesse rested on the mantelpiece, placed with a kind of reverence that made Spike want to stake himself. And some bint named _Des'ree_ crooned a song about _holding your head up_ and _being hard, tough, and stronger_ when Spike made the mistake of pressing play on Charlie's battered Walkman.

But oh, the bed. That messy tangle of her sheets, which proved he wasn't the only one tossing and turning. He wanted to crawl into it, roll around until he'd absorbed the earthy fragrance of her and marked Dracula's fine silks with eau de Spike. Instead, he plunged his hand between the folds of fabric, and let the resentful part of him rejoice in all her lonely, sleepless hours.

A few strands of mahogany hair clung to her pillow, the only thing in the room she likely wouldn't miss, so Spike twisted them around his finger and slipped them into the pocket of his duster. Then he allowed himself a moment of indulgence, lifting the fluffy cushion to his face and breathing in deep.

Bloody hell, how he'd missed that scent.

Light footsteps began padding up the hallway, and Spike dropped the pillow like it was on fire. Dashing away from the bed, he threw himself into the closest upholstered chair, employing the relaxed sprawl he usually reserved for all-day Passions marathons. He tucked his hand somewhere crotch level and pinned a mask of lazy boredom on his face.

The door snicked open, and for just a moment, everything else seemed to fall away. The whole world was contained in the room, in the narrow box of space between where Spike sat and Charlie now stood.

"Surprise," he drawled.

One of Charlie's eyebrows arched towards her hairline. "When the stairwell smells like a liquor cabinet? Not really."

He shrugged. "Been drinkin' 'bout you."

"That's great," she said flatly. "Go do it somewhere else."

He watched her fingers tighten around the fat, old tomes in her arms, and wondered when she'd gotten the blue button-down that'd he'd never seen her wear before. She looked… healthy. Tired, yes, and still sporting a few healing wounds from the battle, but there was a pinch of color in her cheeks that had been absent in the days since he'd come back from Bleakgrave's, missing all his memories. And because she didn't have that glassy-eyed Dracula-thrall look, Spike couldn't stop himself from hazarding a bitter guess as to what the nature of their relationship was.

"You suck _his_ blood?

She rolled her eyes.

"You know, he's so old it'd probably give you a stroke."

With a long sigh, she finally entered the room and unburdened her armload of books onto the chaise. She shut her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "What do you want, Spike?"

"You know what I want."

"It's not going to work," she said softly. "Us, I mean. We're not gonna… you know."

And there it was, that frustratingly determined glance of hers that told him she wasn't going to back down. He'd seen it a hundred times before and it had never ended well. But Spike had never been good about taking a hint.

"Well I don't accept that," he growled through clenched teeth. "Just 'cause you're in a snit-"

"I'm not in a _snit_ ," she protested, "I'm in a _really good place right now_."

Spike made a show of glancing at the twisted nest of her sheets.

"Okay, well... maybe not _emotionally…_ but this is like the nicest room I've ever stayed in, and I've been learning things. About my family. About _... me_."

"Look," Spike began, his chair creaking as he leaned forward, "I _love_ you. You love me. And you can go high-tailing it off to whichever wanker you want, spouting some noble hogwash about finding your route or your past or what-have-you, but let's call it what it is, luv. Running. And maybe I should've done better, but I did what I did _for_ you, to keep _you_ happy-"

Swiveling on her heel, she marched out of the bedroom.

He was on his feet in a flash, drawing close only a short distance down the hallway. His hand snaked out and caught her, forcing her to a halt. "Stop _running_."

She stared down at her forearm, at his fingers encircling it, and Spike wished he'd cleaned the dried blood off his knuckles.

"What kind of love is it?" she asked, fixing him with a pained, disappointed look that went straight to his gut. "What kind of love is built on a lie and takes away someone's choices and decisions? What kind of love doesn't apologize, but hunts the other person down and demands affection in return?"

That answer, Spike knew well enough. _Selfish love_. A deceitful, greedy demon's love. All of his excuses and reasoning bottlenecked in his throat, and when he didn't reply, she tugged her arm out of his grip and continued walking towards the stairwell.

"So what, you think I'm a monster now?" he sighed, falling into step with her.

"If you had the choice, you'd still be going bump in the night, wouldn't you?"

He leered, a weeks worth of pent-up lust pulsing in his veins. "And you'd still be enjoyin' every second of it."

"You know that's not what I meant," she said.

"And yet, you still want it, don't you?"

A sad little laugh escaped her lips as she started down the steps. "What I want from you, I can't have."

"Like hell," Spike grumbled. "You've had the whole kit n' caboodle wrapped around your bloody finger from day one, you have."

She paused, the candlelight making the water in her eyes glint gold. "You still don't get it, do you? You're a _disaster_ , Spike, you're this force of nature leaving a trail of destruction everywhere you go. And you know what's stupid? I _knew_. I saw it coming from a mile off but I didn't care because it felt better than being sad or scared."

Taking a deep breath, she continued down the stairs. "And maybe I made some half-ditch effort to put up a few walls, but by the time I did, you'd already gotten too close. So instead, I hoped. I _wanted_ you to be better than I thought you'd be. Instead, you broke my heart. Broke my trust."

" _Trust_ is for old, married fools," Spike assured her. "Great love burns like wildfire, pet. It's messy and complicated and painful, and sometimes you get caught up in the sting of it."

"The best kind of love doesn't burn," she countered, her voice laced with so much certainty that he almost believed her. "It doesn't _damage_ everything around it. It's a selfless, constant flame that lights and warms your home instead of scorching it to the ground."

To that, he had no rebuttal. She'd given him that light and warmth and more. Until now, until...

"I can't pretend that the house is still standing, Spike."

She'd stopped at the bottom of the steps, and was looking at him with so much pity and sadness that he felt nauseous. And it was then that he finally understood. She'd meant every word she'd said. There'd be no flipping the hourglass, no doubling back to happiness.

"I'm in you, Charlie. You'll ache for me 'til the day you dust," he warned her, desperation ripping into his tone.

"I know," she whispered.

She didn't say it, but the words, _it's not enough_ hung heavily between them.

And suddenly he was twenty eight again, his heart bursting with pain because the woman he loved wouldn't have him.

Yet Charlie still _loved_ him, didn't she? Hadn't denied it, not even a little. And Spike was more than willing to do whatever it took to fall back into her good graces- crawl on his knees, do his penance, even wear the _What Would Angel Do_ bracelet if he had to. Shame had left the building, there were no microscopic crumbs of pride to swallow; for her love, he'd do anything.

But before any plea could pass his lips, thick tendrils of mist began curling into the entryway, solidifying into a pale, shapeless mass. A long white face developed between a curtain of dusky hair, followed by eyes so narrowed and devoid of color they seemed like shadows.

"Oh, look," Spike drawled, quickly masking his anguish with a cold sneer. "It's Vlad the Impediment."

Dracula adjusted the belt on his bathrobe and fixed Spike with his inhuman, frigid gaze. Even wearing slippers and the sheen of water on his skin, the wanker looked supernaturally flawless. Though to be fair, nobody's hair could waft that majestically without some serious glamour mojo.

"So this is the sire, is he?" Dracula purred, prowling closer to examine Spike. The count didn't exactly wrinkle his nose in distaste, but his face took on an arrogant tightness that made Spike want to loosen it up for him. With a pickaxe.

"My manservant draws an excellent bath," Dracula acknowledged, "but when it comes to uninvited guests, I'm afraid he still oversteps his place."

"Hard to imagine, with those teensy little legs of his," Spike deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting the ancient vampire's harsh stare.

Dracula's eyes became squinty. "You look familiar…"

"And _you_ still owe me eleven pound-"

"-cakes. _Poundcakes_ ," Charlie interrupted, shooting Spike a warning glance before grimacing apologetically at Dracula. "He's got this thing about having dessert when he visits people," she explained. "It's weird. Ignore it."

Well, well. Who exactly was she trying to protect from a fang-for-all in this little scenario?

"If you are hungry," Dracula told Spike crisply, "I suggest you go forage with the other undead peasants of this backwater village."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Come along with, Dracs, the blood is fine. I'll wait, if you wanna slip into somethin' more smog-like."

"Filthy swine," Dracula spat. "I have _many_ shapes."

"Yeah?" Spike asked, deliberately eyeing the master vampire's bare legs. "Is _stick_ your favorite or you just takin' it for a test run?"

"Do you _dare_ insinuate that I-"

"Will you knock it the hell off?" Charlie hissed, wedging herself between them. The green-eyed glare that hit Spike could have boiled blood. "You're _really_ trying my patience."

" _Said the pot to the kettle_ ," Spike scoffed angrily. "But at least this kettle didn't _throw in_ when the pot decided to go Hey Diddle Diddle with the antique flatware. I'm the only one left on this planet that loves you, pet. _Everyone_ else is gone."

His comment struck a nerve. Charlie went still, eyes registering hurt as her hands clasped her arms for comfort, though Spike gleaned little satisfaction from it. If only he could make her see how wrong she was, he'd spend the rest of his days laving away the wounds he'd made.

"I'm not _with_ -" Charlie paused, shaking her head. "You know what, it's none of your business."

"Does he trouble you, my child?" Dracula asked her, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder. "I will behead him for his arrogance, if you so wish."

"No," she replied quietly, the look on her face bleak but more determined than Spike had ever seen it. The front door creaked open as a word of magic rolled off her tongue. "Spike was just leaving."

 _It wasn't fair_. What was love, before Charlie? Cecily had only been Spike's source of worship from afar, a useless daydream, fodder for his awful poems. And Dru… maybe Dru had loved him in her own fickle way, but it had never been enough to sate the blazing need in his chest.

But Charlie had given him everything. Every bit of comfort and tenderness and _her_ that his embattled heart had needed, and now she was taking it all back, pulling the panic cord and casting him out into the harsh light of day.

It wouldn't do. If there was a way back into her arms, he swore to himself he'd find it.

But while Spike clenched his hands and tried to ignore the cold draft of wind that now streamed through the beckoning doorway, Charlie merely watched him, her trembling chin the only crack in the wall of conviction that hardened the rest of her features. Half a step behind her, Dracula's gaze glittered with mirth as a small, victorious smirk fluttered over his lips.

It was the final bloody straw.

"Want me to leave, do you?" Spike said coldly. "Fine. I'll leave."

Without waiting for a reply, he stalked out of the castle and pounded down the long driveway, not stopping until he'd wrenched the door of his car open and slumped himself into the driver's seat.

As he started the ignition and peeled out onto the road, his fingers tightened around the strands of Charlie's hair in his pocket.

"I'll leave, and I'll show you _just_ how much of a monster I am."

* * *

 _A/N: Dun-dun-dun. Just a few chapters left, lovelies. I know it's been a while- my work life has been insanity lately, but all your wonderful reviews/favs/follows spur me to keep on keepin' on, and I hope this behemoth of a chapter makes up for it._

 _PS, I loooooooove hearing your thoughts. My poor, fragile little ego insisted that I tell you._


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